


Fixing Reichenbach

by Minirose96



Series: Fixing Reichenbach [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Smut, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 29,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minirose96/pseuds/Minirose96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's fake death, he and Molly discover that Moriarty lives as well, and he's already started a new game. Together, Sherlock and Molly work to bring him down to protect the ones they hold dear, and learn new things about each other and themselves. The stakes are high; Only one can come back alive, so what happens when Sherlock accidentally leaves his dearest vulnerable?</p><p>Robin Hood theme</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death of a Genius

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! If you've clicked this, then thank you! I'm in the process of moving this story from FF to here, as well as my others, so hopefully I'll be done soon. 
> 
> Anyways, if you've never seen this before, enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to Molly with a Request. . .

Everything had to be perfect.

Molly paced as she thought and re-thought about the conversation She had shared with Sherlock a little over two hours ago.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly turned off the light in the morgue as she prepared to leave. It had been a long day, and she was tired, so she hadn't noticed his dark silhouette until he spoke.

"You're wrong you know." Molly started at the door, whipping around to face him, her eyes wide, her heart beat erratic as it tried to decide between the age old instinct of fight or flight until she identified him. Sherlock.

"You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." Molly worried her lip with her bottom teeth. He sounded so. . . dead inside. Something was wrong, but what? What could she do to help?

"But you were right. . . I'm not okay," Sherlock continued, finally turning towards her. There was something manic in his eyes that she couldn't identify.

"Tell me what's wrong." Molly said, not stuttering for once. She wanted to be strong. For him.

"Molly, I think I'm going to die." he said, taking a slow step towards her. His voice was so cold, so void. It almost scared her.

"What do you need?"

"If I wasn't everything you think I am, everything I, think I am, would you still want to help me?" Sherlock asked, still walking towards her. Molly could feel him examining her, and she worried that he could hear her heart racing in her chest.

"What do you need?" Molly repeated, unwavering.

"You."

Molly's eyes, if possible, got wider. "How?" She asked, willing to do anything and everything for him.

"I need you to take some of my blood." He said, clearly deep in thought. "Moriarty's trying to kill me. Well, get me to kill myself, actually. I have a plan. Will you help me?" He explained quickly, gripping her shoulders with more strength than necessary, causing her to wince slightly.

"I'll do whatever you need me to." She replied, a shiver running down her spine. She gently put her hands over his and pried his fingers off. They fell away easily once he realized what he was doing. "Sit down. . ." she said, indicating a chair as she gathered what she'd need to take his blood.

Sherlock nodded, taking the seat. He leaned back in it, looking almost calm now. You could almost see the gears grinding in his brain, working over time.

"What's your plan?" she asked, taking his forearm in her hands and tying it off to make his veins stick out. She glanced at his face as his eyes opened to meet hers.

"I plan to live. I'm sorry Molly. The more you know, the more danger you'll be in when this is over. Just make sure you're the one to do my autopsy." He said, his tone still cold, though his eyes displayed all the emotions she needed for reassurance. Sherlock knew what he was doing. She'd trust him.

"Okay." She carefully inserted the needle, and watched the blood start flowing from him, sluggishly filling an air-tight bag. Without the proper pumping system, it was slow-going.

All the while, Sherlock examined her, seeing a new strength that he hadn't known was there. He could tell so much about her, from the fact that she lived alone except for a small feline, to the fact that her father was dead and her mother over-bearing, but he had missed her most essential piece of being. He always missed something. The thought caused him to smirk.

"What?" Molly asked, noting his sudden change.

"There's always something I miss until it's too late." He explained, going no further to reveal his thoughts. He sighed, a long, breathless sound.

She blushed, and looked down at the bag as it finished filling to distract herself. She sealed the bag and removed the needle, tossing it into a nearby bio-hazard bin. "You may be dizzy. . ." She warned as Sherlock stood and took the bag from her.

He seemed unperturbed, unbothered. Apparently, he was more stable after giving blood than she was, probably a good thing given the circumstances.

"Wait for me in the morgue. . . shouldn't be too long." Sherlock said, once again looking down at her. Molly was glad he seemed more in one piece now, back to the calculated genius she loved. Not that she'd ever say it out loud.

She nodded with a small smile. "I will."

"Thank you Molly." He bent down and kissed her cheek lightly. Before she could respond, he was out the door. Gone. She stayed there for who knows how long, stock still, confused. Twice now he's done that. Twice. That's all she could think about. Until her phone went off with a text.

_Don't forget. - SH_

It snapped her out of her daze, and she went to the morgue to await Sherlock.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Still, two hours later, here she was, pacing in the morgue, waiting.

Suddenly, she heard a commotion above her. With the morgue separated from the hospital by a flight of stairs, she could only wait to be informed. What was going on up there?

The door burst open, and a nurse, Mary Morstan, came in, looking consoling. Mary and she had been friends since Molly had started working a Bart's. She was one of the few people who knew of her feelings for Sherlock, and one of the few people she really opened up to. "Oh Molly, I'm so sorry, you'll never guess what happened."

Molly's eyebrows knit together. "What's wrong Mary? What's happened?"

"Oh darlin', you don't know. . . The consulting detective you're always going on about just jumped off the roof, here. They're bringing him in now. He's dead." Mary said sadly.

Molly's heart dropped. No. That couldn't have been part of the plan. Bart's was six stories high. No one could possibly live from that. No. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she was barely aware of Mary taking her in her arms and holding her. "It's all right. . .It's going to be all right."

Molly stood there, crying on her friend's shoulder in loud keening gasps until she couldn't cry anymore. When she finally stepped away, her eyes were red and swollen. She wiped the last of her tears on her sleeve. "I-is h-hi-is b-b-ody being br-ought here?" She said, hiccuping and sniffling between words.

Mary nodded slowly, still giving her a sad look. "Yes. . .you're the only one qualified to do the autopsy that's here now. . .I'm so sorry."

Molly nodded, numb. "Oh. . .kay. . . I c-c-an d-do it." She said, trying to control herself.

Mary nodded. "All right. . .I have to get back upstairs. . .Good luck." she said, leaving with one last apologetic glance.

As soon as she was alone, Molly collapsed into herself. This couldn't be happening. No. No. God, please no. She sat on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest as she rocked back and forth, trying to hold herself together.

She didn't have long for this though, as sooner lather than later, the doors opened again, this time with a set of paramedics wheeling in a covered body. Of course, she knew whose it was. She stood shakily, and approached as they moved the body onto one of her autopsy tables.

"I'll take it from here." She said quietly, her voice rough from all her crying. They left her then, alone with him. His body. Molly bit her lip hard enough to taste blood in an effort to stop herself from crying again.

She peeled back the covering slowly, and examined Sherlock. His hair and face were covered in blood. Blunt force trauma, from f-falling. A classic suicide injury. God, Moriarty had won.

Shivering, but not from the cold, Molly examined the rest of him. The paramedics had unbuttoned his shirt, trying to get a pulse. It hadn't worked, obviously. His clothing was slightly torn, rumpled, but most of the damage was singled to his head and upper body. She was forced to touch him, finally. He felt so cold.

"Sherlock. . ." She said, looking into his face as another tear slid down her cheek, dropping onto his.

Then, quite suddenly, he took a shuddering breath, and opened his eyes to meet hers. "That hurt more than I thought it would." he said matter-of-factly, groaning in pain.

Molly hit the floor in a dead faint.


	2. Back From the Dead

Molly woke up moments later to a gentle hand shaking her by her shoulder.  _HIS_  hand. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at his face. His shirt was still unbuttoned. He was still covered in blood. A drop fell from his cheek and landed on her forehead.

She shuddered, and quickly scooted away, sitting up as she did so. "b-but. . .Oh my god Sherlock!" She shrieked in hysterics. "Y-you were d-dea. . ." She couldn't finish the word. She cupped her face in her hands and began to cry again, the tears renewed in full force.

Sherlock watched, his eyebrows kitted together as he tried to decide what had brought upon this reaction. He had told her to wait for him here, that he needed her to be the one to do the autopsy. She had done both. But now she was crying, had been for quite some time, by the state of her. She seemed in genuine shock that he was alive. He had told her that was the plan. He moved one of his hands to run it through his hair, only to pull it back and examine the sticky red mess that not covered it.  _Oh_. Of course. She had taken in his appearance, and genuinely thought he was dead.

He wiped his hand on his jacket and approached her cautiously. She was still crying, rocking slightly back and forth. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and waited for her to slowly raise her eyes up to his. "Molly, it's all right. Stop crying. I still need your help."

She bolted forward in response, hugging his waist tightly enough to make him gasp in pain. "You're alive." She breathed heavily into his chest. Sherlock stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do or say. "Molly. . . I may not have died, but I will have bruising." he said at last, wincing as she hugged him tighter.

"Oh, sorry!" Molly squeaked, retracting quickly. Her face, already red from crying, turned a deeper shade with blush. She finally stood, straightening her lab coat and shirt in an effort to distract herself as Sherlock also straightened out.

"W-what do you need me to do?" Molly asked, glancing at him through her lashes. She still sniffled a bit, but she tried to keep her voice steady. He wasn't dead. That was enough.

"First, I need to get clean up. I can't leave still covered in blood." Sherlock said, stripping off his coat and shirt where he stood, dropping them to the floor, leaving his chest bare. Molly could just make out the signs of the beginning of big bruises, mostly on his right side.

"S-Sherlock! y-you can't leave half-naked either!" Molly said, turning around quickly to give him some privacy as well as hide her red face.

"I'm not. I left extra clothes here on one occasion in case the need ever arose. Why have you turned around?" Sherlock asked. Molly could here him moving around, opening cabinets to retrieve the clothes he had spoken of. She heard him place them on the autopsy table he had previously occupied. Then the water started to run.

"Molly, come here, I need help washing the blood out of my hair." Sherlock said, leaning over one of the sinks in the room. Molly finally turned around, still blushing as she saw that he was still half-bare. She approached slowly, and began running her hands through his hair under the water, rinsing it like she would a cadaver, and the thought sent a shiver down her spine. He almost had been one. It was an awkward arrangement.

She watched as the water slowly stopped running red, but she didn't stop massaging his scalp. She could feel a large cut, though it felt like it was one of those wounds that Looked horrid but actually wasn't. Sherlock simply relaxed against the counter, his eyes closed as she washed his hair clean.

Finally, she stopped, and stepped away. "Done. . ." She mumbled, turning to retrieve the bundle of clothes he had laid out. She looked around nervously. Sherlock wrung his hair out into the sink with his hands before taking the bundle from her.

"Thank you Molly." He said as he slipped a plain gray t-shirt on over his head. He looked so odd in it after wearing dress shirts and his coat. Molly looked down at the ruined clothing with a small frown. "I'll just toss these then. . ." She said quietly, picking them up and placing them into a bio-hazard bin.

"What now?" She asked, turning back to him. He was leaning against the counter, his hands together and pressed against his lips. He was thinking. Hard.

"Now we leave." Sherlock answered after a long pause of deliberation on his part. "I need somewhere to go for now. I obviously can't go back to Baker's street, no. Much too dangerous. They could still be watching." he mumbled, talking to himself. Molly didn't have a clue what he meant, but she could help with one thing. . .

"You could stay with me for now." She offered, looking down at her shoes. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and she worried her lower-lip with her teeth.

Sherlock looked up from his thoughts, and stared at Molly. There it was again. The strength showing through her mousy exterior. How could he have missed it before? It was so blatantly obvious. "That's settled then." he clapped his hands together. "We must leave at once. I can't risk being seen. I'll go out the back way, and meet you out front, all right?" he asked, waiting for her to look at him again.

Molly nodded, resolute. "All right." Sherlock and she parted then heading out their separate ways, but she went to her office first. She removed her coat and put it on the rack before going to her desk to start the falsified autopsy report. Of course she'd need to write it up officially as soon as possible.

As she woke her computer up to turn it off properly, her heart dropped. Her desktop picture had been changed to a black backdrop with the letters IOU shining in a bright white contrast. She remembered Sherlock muttering that earlier today. What did it mean though?

With a shudder, she shut down the computer and left the office. She couldn't get away fast enough. She clocked out, and fast-walked out of St. Bart's. She looked around frantically for Sherlock, passing a darkened corner.

Hands shot out, grabbing her around the waist and covering her mouth to muffle her scream. Her heart pounded in her chest as she fought against whoever had her. She managed to jam her elbow back into his ribs, and heard a satisfying gasp of pain as the hands released her.

She spun around to face her attacker, only to see Sherlock, clutching his ribs, glaring at her. "What the hell was that for?" He groaned.

Molly covered her mouth with her hands, in shock. "Oh my god Sherlock, don't do that!" She said, her voice and body shaking.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. "I needed to get your attention." he said simply, as if that excused his actions. "What took you so long?"

"I had to clear up and start a report. . .Sherlock, there was a message on my computer. What does I-O-U mean?" Molly asked, glancing around nervously.

Sherlock went paler than he already was. "No. That's impossible. You must have seen wrong. Please tell me you're lying." he said, already knowing from the scared look on her face that she was serious, that it was real.

"Damn. We have to go. Now. Where do you live.?"

"Not far, I walk to work. . . you probably already knew that though." Molly said, blushing. "I suppose we have to take the back way there as well."

Sherlock nodded an affirmative, and Molly led the way down a back alley, her heart fluttering nervously. She was going home with the man of her dreams, but this seemed to be one big nightmare.


	3. Home Again, Home Again

Molly led the way to her flat, and Sherlock followed at her heels. He kept glancing around and behind them, setting her on edge even more so than she already was. She kept hearing things that weren't there, and seeing things out of the corner of her eye that turned out to be shadows.

At the door, Sherlock bent down and plucked the set of spare keys from her single decoration, a potted plant, and unlocked her door while she still rummaged through her bag for her keys. When she saw the door open, her jaw dropped. "How did you know those were there?" She asked as Sherlock replaced them.

He simple shrugged in response. "It's a classic place to hide keys, and since there's only one here, when you seem to have an affinity for symmetry, it seemed logical that the plant's only use was to conceal something important, that also needed to be outside for when it was needed. Therefore, spare keys." He explain his reasoning as they stepped inside.

"Wow. . .I'll have to move them then. I didn't realize it was so obvious." Molly mumbled, shutting the door and locking it behind them.

"Underneath the welcome mat isn't a good idea either."

Molly stiffened. "How. . ." She sighed, and shook her head. "Never mind."

Once again, she led the way through her apartment, pointing out the living room, dining room, kitchen, and bathroom. As Sherlock had said, each room seemed to match, with everything having a special place in the room it resided in. The only thing out of place was a stack of books on the living room table, nestled between the chair and couch. It was tilted heavily to one side, almost to the point of tipping. The books themselves were the kind cheesy romance novels that single women read like addicts took drugs.

Molly noticed Sherlock's interest in them, and blushed. Of course he'd find and lock onto her secret addiction.

Sherlock noticed much more than that, though. He noticed the single wine glass in the sink, telling him that Molly indulged everyday after work. He noted the lack of family pictures, estranged from her family then. He saw the scented candles decorating each room, some unlit but others having been used several times. She was into aromatherapy then, and often used the scents linked to calming the mind, while she avoided scents for empowerment. She had a fold-away keyboard tucked between the couch and the wall, indicating she played but was embarrassed about it, possibly because her mother didn't approve of frivolities. In short, a quaint dwelling that seemed much too repressive.

Molly stood there dumbly as he looked around. She wondered what he saw. Probably some pathetic spinster woman whose only comfort was her cat and romance novels.

When Sherlock was done, he glanced down at Molly. "You haven't shown me where I'll be staying." he said, giving no indication of his view of her house, or what he may or may not have learned of her.

"Oh yes. . .There's a guest bedroom down the hall. . .it hasn't been used for a while, but hopefully it'll do." Molly said, leading him to the room. She opened the door to reveal more of the same, light colors and openness. The bed was centered in the room, with a burrow on the wall across. It had a small bedside table with a lamp on it, but otherwise the room was bare.

"This'll do just fine." Sherlock said, once again not commenting on the room.

"All right. . . well, umm. . . my bedroom's at the other end of the hall, soo. . . yeah. Do you need anything?" She pursed her lips together to stop the stream of nervous babbling.

"Yes, coffee, black with two sugars, if you don't mind." he replied, giving her his trademark grin when he asked for the same at Bart's.

Molly nodded, and went to the kitchen, glad for something recognizable to do. Nothing unusual about making Sherlock coffee. . . Everything unusual about making him coffee in  _her_ house. God, Everything just seemed so  _wrong._

As she pored the coffee into a cup, she realized her hands were shaking. She balled them into fists angrily. Why did she have to be so weak? As soon as anything got compromising, she got scared. She was tired of it. She couldn't just run away from life forever, certainly not now.

She unclasped her hands and very deliberately spooned the sugar into the cup and stirred it. Simple, slow movements, no jerking, no stumbling through it or letting herself to insane with concern or worry or anything else.

She heard a noise from the living room, and, with the coffee in hand, she went there to find Sherlock sitting on her couch, Toby curled in his lap. He seemed confused by the feline's presence there, and Molly couldn't help but giggle at the sight. "That's usually my seat, and whenever I sit down, he does the same thing."

Molly sat down at the other end of the couch, and passed him the coffee. He didn't thank her this time. Of course, what had she been expecting? He never thanked her for coffee. Just for saving his life, and that sort of thing. Molly sighed. Just an ordinary day with Sherlock Holmes.

Watching him drink the coffee, Molly found herself wishing for her nightly glass of wine before bed. Something to calm her nerves, at the very least.

"Go drink, if you must. You're fidgeting again. It's distracting." Sherlock said, waving her look of confusion off. "I noticed the wine glass." he explained.

Molly nodded, then shook her head no. "I don't want it tonight. . ." She sighed, standing. "I'm going to bed. . .put the cup in the sink when you're done." She said somewhat bossily. She didn't see Sherlock's look of amazement at this as she slipped away to her room, with the feline - Toby - fast at her heels.

"Amazing." Sherlock muttered. "No asking, just telling. I wonder how she'd react if I just left the cup here. . ." he said quietly, talking to himself as he looked at the half-empty cup. He shook his head, dismissing the thought quickly. No need to purposely goad the pathologist into anger.

"Sherlock!" Molly shrieked from the bedroom. Sherlock was up in an instant, and in the room in another. He wasn't immediately sure what he saw. Molly was holding a coat in her hands, looking at him with a deer-in-the-headlights expression. When he looked closer, he realized the problem. It wasn't just any coat, it was  _his_  coat, the very one she had thrown away earlier. It still had his blood dried on the collar.

Sherlock took the scene in without showing emotion, though his mind raced. "This is part of the game- no, a new game. It seems we tied, then. . . Unless. . . Molly, I need you to call John." He said, stirring her from her shocked daze.

"What? Why?"

"Because I need to know if he's alive. No time to explain. Just call." Sherlock said impatiently.

Molly pulled out her cell phone and made the call. After a few rings, she was met with the sound of a sniffling man. "John?"

"Yes, yes. Hello Molly, what do you want?" John's voice was rough and broken. He'd obviously been crying a lot. He also didn't have his usual politeness for her, something that hurt her deeply.

"It's just. . .I wanted to make sure you were all right, after. . ." Molly pursed her lips as she heard her own voice get tight with sadness.

"I'm alive, and honestly, that's all I can promise right now. You're the third person to call me today, asking the same damn thing. Sorry, but I'm done Molly. Goodbye." John hung up then, leaving Molly nearly in tears for the third time that day.

Sherlock, who had been listening to the whole thing, nodded happily. "Yes, very good, he's alive, meaning in some sick way, Moriarty and I have tied. Now he's bored again, so he's started a new game, only this time, it's a secret. One of us will die this time, while the other gets to come back. Genius, simply genius." he raved, pacing as Molly watched, flabbergasted.

"Genius? This isn't some game Sherlock!" Molly scolded, tossing the coat the the ground in anger. "There are lives here, real lives, and  _this_  life is sick of being treated like a pawn!" The stress of the day finally came forth, and for once, she didn't want to just bow down and do what was asked of her. She was angry and sick and tired of this.

Sherlock, for what it was worth, seemed to snap out of his train of thought, and even flinched as she raised her voice at him. He straightened quickly though, and took a deep breath, seeming to right himself internally. "You are most right Molly, lives aren't pawns on some chess board. You'll have to excuse me if I seem to treat you as such. To beat an evil maniac, I have to think like one, you see, and he views everything as a game."

Molly nodded slowly, her temper gone as quickly as it had come. She blushed, and looked away. "Y-yeah. . .sorry for yelling. . .that was uncalled for."

Sherlock sighed. "Never mind that now. There's been another change of plans. We can't stay here. Grab your essentials, and get ready to go."

"What?!"


	4. His Second, My Second

Sherlock, who had turned away to do something Molly probably wouldn't like or approve of, turned back to her and repeated himself, talking very slowly, as though to a child. "We can not stay here. Grab your essentials, and your gun, and get ready to go."

"Sherlock, i-it's not that easy! I can't just up and leave." She sputtered. "I have. . .responsibilities. I have Toby, (The feline in question was currently wrapping himself around her ankles as if to prove her point), and I have work at Bart's in the morning."

He literally waved off her excuses with a flick of his wrist. "You have someone you call to watch Toby on occasion. Do that now. Call Bart's as well, and tell them you can't come in, grief stricken with my death or some such rubbish. They'll believe you easily, with your feelings on your sleeve."

Molly flinched, almost as if she had been slapped.  _That hurt._ That hurt her pride, as a woman and as a person. She tried. . .so hard to hide her feelings, and there he was again, crushing them without a thought. "Sherlock. . ." Molly said, her voice broken. "You've done it again. . .why must you say the most horrible things. . .?" She mumbled, pursing her lips together and shaking her head. She wiped her eyes before the tears that bubbled up could fall. "Always. . ."

Sherlock stood stock still, examining the situation at hand. This reminded him way too much of the Christmas party. She even said something extremely similar to what she had said that night. He had overstepped some invisible boundary again, and now he didn't have John to glare him into the correct act of reconciliation.

Still, he had to try. "Molly. . .I believe I've said something offensive without realizing it. Whatever it is, I can assure you' you've taken it the wrong way."

Molly let out a choked giggle. "Of course you don't know you've done it. . . never mind Sherlock, just. . . shut up for once, okay?"

Sherlock's eyes grew wide. Oh my, he  _had_  tweaked a very important button indeed. Without realizing it, he had put on a face that very much resembled an abandoned puppy, almost as if he was waiting for another beating.

Molly had been ready to turn him down completely. Until she saw his face.  _Damn it. That's cheating._ She though, giggling. "All right. . ." She sighed. "I'll make the calls. . ." she let out another dry chuckle. Of course in the end, he's get what he wanted. How could you possibly say no when he looked at you with those eyes. . .  _Easy Molly,_ you  _can't._

Molly picked up Toby, and snuggled him close. "Sorry baby, but it looks like Mommy's going on a trip with a crazy man. . .I'll be back soon though, I promise." She talked in a baby voice, kissing his front paws as he purred into her ears, his whiskers tickling her cheeks and making her giggle again.

He watched the display, confounded. One second crying, one second laughing. And really, a baby voice to a cat? and she most certainly was not that creatures mother. Then another part of her words caught and snagged in his mind. "I am not a crazy man. I am perfectly sound of mind."

"Could have fooled me. . ." She mumbled in reply, biting her lower lip to stop herself from giggling again as she reached for her phone and made the first call.

"Hello Mary?" She paused, waiting for confirmation. "Hey, I was hoping you'd watch Toby for me for a while. . .I have to get out, you know? Sort through my thoughts alone. . .No, I don't know where I'm going. . .Yes. . . You will? . . .Thank you. . . I'll call, don't worry. Yes, I'm fine, really. . . Thank you so much Mary. . .I've got to go now. . .Yes, I will. . .Bye." She hung up, smiling at the phone.

Then she called Bart's, and had a similar conversation with Mike, her boss and the man in charge of scheduling. Her voice was still rough from earlier, so he readily told her to take as long as she wanted, said he'd put it down as her vacation time since she had plenty saved up. He consoled her on Sherlock's death, knowing how she felt about him. . .apparently, it had been very obvious to everyone at Bart's, who all wished her well. When she finally hung up, she was close to tears again.

Sherlock simply watched the calls, confused. Why was she close to crying again? It seemed to happen whenever his death was brought up, but that didn't make sense. He was standing right there, in her bedroom, in her line of sight, clearly alive and well. It must be some form of sentiment. Compassion maybe? Yes, that fit Molly very well.

Molly put down her phone, then her cat, who twined around her ankles as she moved to get her things together. Only the essentials and her. . .wait a second. . . "How'd you know I had a gun?" She said, whipping around the face Sherlock.

"Simple." Sherlock said, smirking. "You have military stars displayed in a case in your living room, obviously very important to you. Since you have never been married, they aren't a previous husband or relationship's. Therefore, they belong to a father or brother. You have no brothers, so father then. Those particular awards are often won in third world countries, where bad things happen to young women. He came back from war, didn't die there, obvious again because of the awards, and coming home to a daughter, he would have wanted to show her how to protect herself. He probably taught you to shoot when you were. . .thirteen, no, fourteen. Also taught you how to clean and store a firearm properly, as well as more basic self-defense. With that kind of parenting, he would have insisted you keep a gun with you once you moved out. When he died, you would have continued to have one on hand to honor his memory, but also to stand against you mother, who believes firearms weren't for females, and with whom you're estranged. Am I wrong?"

Molly shook her head slowly. "No. . .That's right. . .My dad did teach me about firearms. . and self-defense, and. . .mom never approved of it. . .or of anything I did, really. . ." She sighed, and retrieved the gun, a simple 9 millimeter pistol that held eight bullets per cartridge. She secured it onto a hip strap, and hid it under an over-sized jumper, hastily pulled over the clothes she was wearing.

"I really don't need anything else. . ." She muttered. She turned back to Sherlock, when another thought struck her. "If you both being alive is meant to be a secret that only the pair of you know about. . .why am I allowed to know you're alive without. . .breaking the rules, or however it works with him. . ."

"Simple, he has a single person who knows he's alive as well. He has decided that we're each allowed a second, much like duels, if you've ever read or heard about them. Each man involved is allowed on other person to fight on their behalf. These people are referred to as their second's. You are mine. Moriarty's is most likely a man by the name of Sebastian Moran, who is the second most powerful man within his underground web." As Sherlock explained all this, he began to eye her strangely.

"What?" Molly asked, feeling exposed under his scrutiny.

"Nothing. . . It seems I've missed more than just one thing, that's all. Come, it's time to go." Sherlock said, obviously avoiding her question. Still, it was a little too late to turn back now, so she fallowed him. With one last glance at her apartment, and wondering if she'd ever see it again, she shut the door behind her, and followed Sherlock out into the darkness.


	5. Finding the Theme

Molly wasn't sure how long they walked. She knew it was long enough for her feet to ache, despite her being in her most comfortable shoes. Still she didn't want to ask where they were going. Something about Sherlock's posture as he walked kept her silent. It wasn't that he was on edge, it was that he was way too calm. It made no sense.

Over time, his calmness rubbed off on her, as she managed to let her thoughts wander as she stared at his back, trusting him to lead the way to wherever they were going. She thought once more to when they were at her house, and he was explaining duals and second's. It just didn't make sense to her. Sure, she knew he was alive, but wasn't John the obvious choice for a partner in these kinds of things? What was she doing here in the first place!

She was, quite literally, knocked from her thoughts when Sherlock whipped around and slammed her suddenly to the ground. She heard a loud thud, probably her head hitting the pavement.

"Oww. . ." She whined, shoving him off. "What was that for?" She sat up, rubbing the back of her head as Sherlock stood. But he wasn't paying any attention what-so-ever to her.

She followed his eyes to where he was staring. Buried in an old wall along the sidewalk, at the height her head had been moments before, was an arrow. Someone had shot a bloody arrow at them. No, at her.

Molly watched as Sherlock removed the arrow from it's new perch, and pulled something off the end of it. A note, from her perspective. She stood on suddenly very shaky feet, and walked over to get a better look.

"Sherlock." She said, tapping his shoulder to get his attention. He turned to her, seemingly surprised by her presence.

"Ah Molly, good, you're uninjured. It seems we've received a message." He said, holding up the parchment. It looked old, and, seeing the arrow closer, so did that.

"Umm, Sherlock, You'll have to explain, because I don't pick things up like you do." Molly sighed.

"Yes, of course. The arrow has been aged, very nicely, and is based off of a thirteenth century design, one prevalently used at the end of the crusades. The parchment the letter was written on, likewise, is an aged sheet based on the making of parchment in those times. I believe Moriarty has given me a theme, and changed the rules of the game."

Having explained his reasoning, Sherlock ignored Molly's still-confused look, and carefully unfolded the parchment. Only one line was written on it.

_When nothing is left_

Sherlock read it aloud for her before shoving it into his pocket, clearly confused. "There's more. He's giving me hints in pieces. Oh, you're good Moriarty, very good. " Sherlock continued down the path, leaving Molly to skittishly follow.

"Sherlock, I still don't understand. What theme, what rules? What's going on? Why was I the one who was shot at?" Molly asked question after question, until Sherlock flicked his wrist for silence.

Still walking, he began to explain, not turning to look at her. "Moriarty always has a theme for when he decides to play. The first time, the theme was introductions. He showed me what he could do with multiple small cases at once, to see how fast I could solve them. The second time, it was fairy tales. He used Hansel and Gretel, as well as the story of Sir Boast-a-lot. This time, he's using the Renaissance and the crusades. The parchment and arrow give that to us. The writing is part of it, but until he reveals more of it, I don't know what it means."

"And the rules?"

"The rules, or what I had assumed them to be, were the same as a dual, as I explained. Two people on each side, the main and the second's. Two people who know what's happening, no one else. I was wrong. More people can be involved. Neither Moran nor Moriarty is skilled with a bow, and the shooter's marksmanship was perfect. Had he hit you, you would have been dead, no chance of recovery. Moran is a skilled sniper, but with a rifle, not a bow, he wouldn't have been able to pull off such a shot, therefore, Moriarty has at least one other person involved, possibly more. I plan to do the same."

Molly nodded slowly, though Sherlock didn't see her do so. "Okay. . .So, why was I the target?"

"A test. I was waiting for it."

"You were waiting for me to get shot at, and you didn't feel the need to tell me?"

"Yes. Had you known, It wouldn't have worked." Still, he refused to look at her, simply leading the way.

She glared at his back. There he was again, treated her like a pawn on a chess board instead of like a person. "Sherlock, I would like to know when my life's in immediate danger, thank you." She said angrily.

"Fine. Your life is in danger. Consider this warning valid until Moriarty is dead."

Molly sighed angrily. There was obviously no winning.

"Fine. . .Where are we going then?"

"To get some help."

"From who, Sherlock? Enough with your half-arsed answers! I want a plain response, because, unlike you, apparently, I'm scared. I have never been shot at, never been threatened, never been almost killed, until today, and I want to know why."

Finally, Sherlock stopped, so suddenly Molly bumped into his back and had to take a quick step back. He turned to face her, and the look on his face. . .it was blank, except his eyes. They were. . .clouded over, with. . .what? Adrenaline? Fear? Worry?

"We are going to the subway, where the homeless people gather, so I can find a man by the name of Wiggins, who, along with you, helped me effectively die. He had accommodations waiting for me, and I intend to use them while I track down Moriarty. You agreed to help me, Offered your home, and therefore, put yourself in the firing line. I am doing my best to keep you alive, but if my attempts aren't enough for you, you can leave. I have never forced you to do anything."

With all that said, Sherlock turned back around, and continued down the sidewalk, his pace increased, leaving Molly standing there, confused, hurt, and, yes, still scared, perhaps more so. She had never seen him like that before, ever.

Finally, she knew some of what John went through, constantly following Sherlock unquestioningly, as though strings held them together.

And just like John, her choice was already made. The tendrils guiding her to help him were firmly wrapped around her heart, and she couldn't break them.

So, setting a new resolve for herself, Molly followed silently after Sherlock, and, despite him never turning around to her as she drew closer, she could see his shoulders relax.

She smiled sadly at his back. Did he really think he would be left alone? No. . .there would always be someone willing to trust Sherlock, even if he didn't trust himself at times.

Little did she know, that even though Sherlock looked ahead, he was once again categorizing a new trait he had never seen before, and once again, he was astounded by Molly.

Neither broke the silence as they continued on to the subway.


	6. The Subway

Sherlock continued to lead the way until they came to an older Subway entrance. Without wasting a glance, Sherlock proceeded down the stairs with Molly close behind.

Molly felt a chill run down her spine as they descended. This particular part of the subway seemed abandoned. It wasn't properly lit, and there was no sound of the usual night time subway runs, so when, at the bottom of the stairs, she saw a beggar with a guitar, obviously offering to play for spare change, she was immediately confused.

Sherlock approached the man, and immediately dug until his pocket, pulled out a fifty pound note, and proceeded to fold it twice before allowing it to fall into the man's guitar case.

The man no sooner saw the fluttering bill than he looked up and grinned toothily. Well, it would have been a toothy grin if he had had more than seven teeth.

"Well I'll be damned." The man said, standing. "Wiggins wasn't lying after all, didn't think you'da just jumped. He's been off about how you'd be stopping in sometime soon, 'bout drove a few of the younger boys off." The man started to chuckle, a seep, friendly sound, putting Molly at ease.

Sherlock seemed unamused. "Yes, where is Wiggins? I need to see him immediately."

"He's off in the tunnels, should be in the usual place, last I knew. Said he wasn't leaving 'til you showed up." The man let out another chuckle before taking his seat again. As he did so, he seemed to finally notice Molly hovering slightly behind him.

"Huh, who's yur friend Sherlock? I ain't seen her before, did ya replace the other guy then?" he asked

Molly's manners kicked in, overriding any apprehension she may have felt, and she smiled widely as she offered him her hand to shake, which he took. "Hello, I'm Molly, a friend -"

"Colleague and associate." Sherlock interrupted and corrected.

Molly narrowed her eyes at him as she released quitar-man's hand. "A very patient friend at that. . ." She muttered crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Sherlock either didn't notice or ignored her shift in emotion. "Yes, introductions over, let's go Molly." He said, striding away, farther into the subway's darkness.

"Sorry." She mumbled a quick apology for his lack of manors before following him.

"How often did you come here?" She asked as the walked.

"As often as I needed people who would do a better job locating something than the police. Which was quite often."

"Oh." She stopped talking after that, because she was too distracted by the scuttling sounds of unseen creatures scurrying around underfoot as they moved.

Soon enough, they came to a door in the side of one of the tunnels, an old maintenance room if Molly had to guess. Sherlock entered without bothering to knock, and she slipped in before closing the door. Looking around, it was hard not to gasp.

The room was lit with an assortment of candles, and looked for all the world like an office. The man inside, she could only assume it was Wiggins, was even tapping away on a fairly-new laptop.

The man himself was surprisingly neat, in old but obviously well-attended clothes, a total difference from the man from earlier. His dark hair was down his shoulders, in a ponytail, and when he looked up she saw deep green eyes.

Sherlock sat down in the only other available chairs, leaving Molly to stand to the side, feeling awkward and unneeded.

"It's about time Sherlock, what took you so long?" He asked, not bothering with greetings. He barely even glanced up from his computer.

"I was busy. Moriarty's already started a new game, and I had to prepare. Now, do you have what I asked for?"

Without a word, Wiggins pushed forward a small box. "Keys are inside it too. The same place we agreed on. Anything else?"

"Yes. What do you get from this?" Sherlock asked, passing him the parchment from earlier.

Wiggins wasted not time reading it, and typing the words into his computer. "Hmm. . ."He said, clicking a few different links. "Not much Sherlock, four words ain't a lot to go on. It's linking me to a few songs, a band, a facebook page, but nothing else. Any of this look useful?" He turned the computer to Sherlock, but there really was nothing. There just wasn't enough to go on based on those words.

Sherlock sneered at the computer. "Nothing. None of these have anything to do with anything." He snatched the paper back from the desk, and shoved it into his pocket before standing. "I'll be going now Wiggins. You know where to find me if anything new turns up."

Wiggins nodded, and Sherlock was out the door, box in hand, with Molly following once again.

"Umm. . .He's. . .different than what I expected." she said hesitantly, looking back at the door as it faded back into the darkness.

"Yes. Unlike most homeless, Wiggins chooses to be. If he wanted, he could most likely run a successful business or electronics firm. He has an affinity for technology that I haven't found anywhere else. Instead, he chooses to stay here. We reached an agreement when I discovered that he had a sort of leadership over the homeless network. "

"So. . .What did you ask him to get for you?" she asked curiously.

"A new cellphone, since my number will be easily recognizable and I need to contact him and other people easily, a firearm, and the keys to a previously prepared safe house, where we're going now."

"All right."

Sherlock led them through a path along the subway tracks that confounded Molly, but she guessed that he knew exactly where he was going. Soon enough, He brought them to another subway exit, seemingly abandoned like the first, with yet another instrumentalist sitting at the bottom of the stairs.

Sherlock wasted no time approaching him, and repeating the process of folding a fifty pound note and dropping it into the man's case. The stranger dipped his cap, and Sherlock walked past, not saying a word to the man.

"Why do you do that?"

"Part of my arrangement with them. How I fold the pound, and what pound I use, indicates what's needed."

"That's. . .genius." Molly said in obvious awe.

Sherlock simply hummed ambiguously in response.

Silence ensued as they slowly made their way to the safe house he had spoken of earlier. He led them through one of the darker neighborhoods, a place Molly wouldn't have stepped foot in any other time. "Sherlock. . .are you sure this is the right place?" Molly asked hesitantly.

"Of course I'm sure."

Soon enough, they reached an apartment complex that looked as though it would fall apart underneath them. That didn't stop Sherlock from barging in, and making his way up the stairs.

Molly looked around nervously, noting the rust on the staircase's safety handle, but she followed him up nonetheless.

They went up two floors before Sherlock stopped at a door. He seemed to examine it a moment, then nodded, and rummaged through the box for a moment before pulled out the keys.

"Pull your gun. Someone's been here already, and I'm not entirely sure they're gone." Sherlock said, smirking as he also pulled a pistol from the box before setting it aside on the ground.

Molly barely had time to upholster her gun before Sherlock had the key in the lock, and the door open.


	7. The Unsafe House

Molly's eyes darted around to everything immediately in view of the door but. . . nothing was there. "Umm. . .Sherlock, I don't see anything." She said, lowering her gun slightly. Her heart was still pounding at what seemed to be a hundred miles per minute.

Sherlock didn't say anything in response. He entered the apartment slowly, carefully glancing around. Him being on edge kept her so, and she cautiously crept in after him. He made a motion for her to shut the door, and she did so, careful not to make too much noise.

The farther they moved through the apartment, the more confused Molly became. There really seemed to be nothing here. . .and, as far as she could see, nothing was out of place. Of course, she'd never been here before to see what it was like, and if Sherlock said someone might be here. . .no need to doubt him.

Sherlock moved into another room, and Molly moved to follow, but all too suddenly, she became aware of a shadow falling over her. "SH-" Her words were cut off by a hand covering her mouth and yanking her away from the doorway, and causing her to drop her gun. At the same moment, she heard a clatter from the room ahead, but at the moment she couldn't worry about that.

Whoever had her was stronger than her, and a lot more wanting to keep her in his grasp than Sherlock had been earlier. A jab at the ribs didn't even cause a stumble.

"Listen carefully." The voice said, having pinned her against him. She was still trying to break free, his hand muffling her screams. Where was Sherlock? She thought desperately.

The man who had her let out an annoyed sigh, and she felt something - a knife - being pressed into her back. "Quit squirming, and shut the hell up."

She obliged, shaking with fear.

"And all the good men are thieves. Moriarty sends his regards." He said in her ear before slamming her heavily into a wall. Her vision flickered and blacken, but she managed to stay conscious as the man moved down to the doorway Sherlock had went into earlier.

"Oi! What've you done to my mate?" She heard the same voice exclaim, then another commotion, and a groaning gasp. But that didn't come from the assailant.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she leaned forward and began to crawl on her hands and knees to the door, remembering to pick up her gun on the way. Shaking, She used the wall to rise to her feet again, and turned the last corner to look into the room.

Sherlock was pinned to the ground by her assailant, and he seemed to be bleeding. He was struggling, but had clearly been surprised from behind as she had been. Another man, who appeared unconscious, was lying a few feet away, probably assailant number one's 'mate.'

Another choking gasp from Sherlock brought her attention immediately back to those two. Sherlock could see her, just barely, but the attacker's back was to her. What was more important, though ,was that she could see Sherlock. His face had gone almost blue with asphyxiation.

No.

She heard a gunshot, and saw as the man fell on top of Sherlock, a bullet hole in the back of his skull. It was then, watching Sherlock struggle out from under the man, that she realized she had raised her gun and shot it, all in a primeval, instinctual motion, with no conscious thought towards the action.

"Oh. My. God." She gasped, falling to her knees as the gun once again skidded from her grasp. "I just shot someone." She said, stating the obvious.

"Yes, very good. Good shot." Sherlock said, his voice rough from being choked. He seemed to right himself quickly, even though he was covered in the other man's blood. She saw then that he also had a deep cut on his arm, but he ignored it as he approached her, and knelt down beside her. "Are you hurt?"

"Ummm. . ." Molly stumbled through a few words, but was overall unintelligible. She shook badly, and as she gripped herself, she could feel the signs of shock coming on.

I just killed a man. Oh my god. I just killed someone. I just. . .

The mantra repeated over and over again in her head, a loud, horrible beating that seemed to match the hammering in her chest.

Sherlock took in her obvious signs of distress, and very carefully, trying to to set her off further, gripped her shoulders in his hands. "He would have killed us. It was self-defense. Breathe Molly."

She tried, but her breaths only came out in hyperventilating gasps, and soon, she was sobbing loudly.

Sherlock, knowing that being in such close proximity to the body would only increase her distress, did the only logical thing in his mind. He, using more gentleness than one would have thought possible for him, picked her up bridal style, and carried her from the scene. She clung to him like a small child as he brought her into the living area, out of sight of the bodies, and sat down with her still in his lap on the couch. She couldn't let go, despite his careful urging.

He sighed internally. Emotions, comforting, neither his strong suit. Still, it was plainly obvious why she was this way. Killing anyone was difficult, no matter the circumstances. Even John, he knew, still occasionally had nightmares of his time in Afghanistan. He mimicked what he had seen others do, shushing her gently and stoking her hair as she cried. It seemed to calm her slightly, so he continued the motions.

Slowly, her grip on his shirt loosened, and her sobs dissipated into small whines and sniffles. "I'm s-sorry." she mumbled into his chest, her voice rough and broken.

"It's fine Molly." Sherlock reassured. "But I need you to let go. One of those men is merely unconscious, and I don't want him getting away." Or coming out here with that damned gun. he thought, having the understanding that saying such a thing would only distress her further.

Molly blushed a deep shade of red as she immediately let go, and fell to the side of Sherlock in an awkward attempt to quickly get off of him. "Sorry!" She muttered again, pulling her knees against her chest.

"Stop apologizing." Sherlock said, standing. "Wait here, I won't be long." He walked out of sight, leaving Molly alone for the time being.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and tried to properly compose herself, tried to rationalize what had happened. Breath Molly. . .he was going to kill Sherlock. . .probably you too. It was self-defense, yeah. . .That's legal. She thought it over an over again, but part of her still called it murder. There was no getting around it. She had taken another's life.

She shoved all her thoughts away as she felt herself stress again. No. She didn't want to become hysterical again. Not good.

Slowly, she closed her eyes, and, leaning back against the couch, she fell into a fitful, but much needed, sleep.


	8. Putting Things Together

Molly woke up to something small and wet brushing against her cheek. She grumbled, and rolled over. "Toby, I don't need another bath." She murmured, snuggling deeper into the couch.

"What are you talking about?"

Hearing Sherlock's voice, the events of the last day came rushing back her, and she sat bolt upright. "Sherlock!" She squeaked before covering her mouth with her hands. "Sorry."

"I told you to stop apologizing." Sherlock scolded, holding out a wet cloth, apparently what she had mistaken for Toby's tongue in her half-sleeping state. "Here, since you're awake, you can wipe it off yourself."

Molly took the cloth, but hesitated. "Wipe what off?"

"The blood, obviously."

Her eyes immediately darted to the room where everything had happened.

Sherlock sighed. "The body's gone, as is his accomplice. While you were asleep, I got in contact with Wiggins, and he arranged everything. The room's even clean, though I doubt even with that knowledge you'll want to go into it any time soon."

"You're right about that. . ." Molly muttered, looking down at the cloth in her hands once more. Suddenly, she could feel every dry crusted spot of blood on her body, and looking at her cloth, she almost gagged, seeing the splatter on her jumper.

"Oh my god. I really did shoot someone."

"You're not going to have a panic attack again, are you?" Sherlock asked, bending down to look at her closely for the signs of another attack. His scrutiny helped her keep her emotions in one piece, as strange as that seems.

"No. . .but umm. . .can I have a shower, maybe?" She asked, realizing that he was clean, and in fresh clothes as well. His hair still looked damp, even.

Smirked, Sherlock pointed to an open door across the room. "Through there."

"Thank you. . ." she mumbled, pushing herself off the couch and heading into the room. Her gaze, as she moved, seemed to move everywhere except to him, something he noted with mild interest.

She shut the door behind her, and immediately turned to the mirror to see just how bad she looked. Had the figure she saw not mimicked her every facial distortion, Molly wouldn't have believe it was her. Her face was smudged with watered down blood, Sherlock's attempt at cleaning her up. Her hair had come loose of it's ponytail, and random tendrils were sticking out in several directions. Her jumper was stained and spotted with blood spatter, as were her arms and neck. She looked like the first victim in a cheesy horror flick.

Molly shuddered, and quickly stripped out of her clothes, throwing and kicking them to the side in disgust. She turned the water on as hot as it would go, and stepped into the steaming water, relishing the burn of it. With the cloth Sherlock had given her, she scrubbed her skin until it was raw in an effort to remove all traces of the man she had killed.

Spotting a shampoo bottle, she snatched it, pored a larger than necessary amount into her palm, and massaged it roughly into her scalp, ignoring the sting as she brushed against a sore spot, where her head had connected with the wall. She rinsed the suds from her hair, and repeated this a second time, still feeling dirty.

When the water began to cool, she couldn't stay in any longer. She turned off the stream, and stepped out of the shower, before the sudden realization that she didn't have any spare clothes came to her. She was not putting on her other clothes. . .but she couldn't just go out there in nothing with Sherlock out there. . .

The problem solved itself though, when she spotted a bundle on the sink counter that hadn't been there before. Only one person could have put it there, and the thought had her blushing. He came in while I was showering?!

She looked back at the shower curtain, and let out a sigh of relief when she saw that it was opaque.

She unraveled the bundle, and looked at the clothes. None of them looked familiar, so they weren't from her house, but everything was exactly her size, including the undergarments, much to her embarrassment. She momentarily wondered how he could possibly know that about her, but shrugged it off. He was Sherlock, after all.

She slipped on the clean clothes, and let out another contented sigh before she left the bathroom. Of course, thinking it was all right that he knew her sizes and seeing the man were two totally different things, so when she spotted Sherlock sitting on the couch, hands together and pressed against his lips in his thinking position, she once again turned a deep shade of red.

Sherlock looked up as she entered, and was the first to break the silence. "You look better."

She nodded. "I feel better. . . Thank you for the clothes." She muttered, giving him a small smile.

He, with a familiar flick of his wrist, dismissed her thanks. "You couldn't very well walk around naked."

"Right." She blushed.

In the silence that followed, Molly took the time to look Sherlock over properly. sticking out from under his sleeve, she could see bandaging, and his neck had formed dark bruising that closely resembled fingers. . .No questions as to where those came from.

As she looked up to his face, she realized that he was staring, a curious look on his face. "What?" She asked defensively. "Did I miss something?" He hand went instinctively to her hair, brushing the damp mess out of her face.

The action seemed to amuse Sherlock, who chuckled. "No, you didn't. " he assured, half-smiling.

"Oh. . .okay."

"You can sit down you know."

"Right. . ." Molly moved closer, and sat down on the opposite end of the couch, barely perched on the edge of the cushion. "So. . ." Molly began, "How long was I asleep?"

"About eleven hours. You seemed to need it."

"Oh. . .Oh! Sherlock, I almost forgot. . .the man. . .before he attacked you. . . "Sherlock's full attention was immediately on her.

"Yes?"

"He told me. . .'and all the good men are thieves'. He said Moriarty sends his regards. . ."

"Hmm. . ." Sherlock pursed his lips, and faced forwards as he thought. "Interesting. The other one told me something as well; 'some stealing what they can in the night.' It obviously part of the words on the parchment, but I've never heard of the phrases together before."

"It sounds almost poetic, if you think about it." Molly said in jest.

Sherlock suddenly sat up, straight as a board. "Repeat that."

"Umm. . .It sounds. . .poetic?"

Sherlock stood and began to pace. "That's because it is." He began mumbling the words to himself as he walked, until he snatched up a pad of paper and a pen.

"When you put the lines in an order, with the knowledge that the first line is the one we received first, these are the only two current options."

He jotted down a few lines before showing them to Molly.

When nothing is left

and all the good men are thieves

some stealing what they can in the night,

OR

When nothing is left

some stealing what they can in the night,

and all the good men are thieves

"But," Sherlock said, turning the paper back to him and making more scratches on the paper, "Only one of these two orders make proper sense, therefore, the clue is this:" He turned the paper to show Molly only the first option, the second having been scratched out.

"That's incredible! Do you know the rest of the poem?"

"No, but this should be enough to find it." He whipped out his new cellphone, and began tapping away, obviously texting Wiggins the new information. As he finished, he sat down.

"Genius. Very good Molly. You have the same effect of stimulating the mind as John, very useful."

"Thank you?" Molly said, though it came out more as a question than a statement.

"It was a compliment, rest assured."

"Okay. . ."

They sat in silence, Sherlock waiting to hear from Wiggins, and Molly waiting to see what else could possibly happen.


	9. Getting Into The Roles

Soon enough, Sherlock's phone rang, and he answered it before he had the chance to do so a second time. "What have you found?" He asked, not bothering with greetings.

Molly, overcome with curiosity, scooted close enough to hear both sides of the conversation, not wanting to miss anything. Sherlock simply gave her a raised-eyebrow smirk before turning his full attention to what Wiggins' said.

"That's the funny thing Sherlock, even with what you gave me, there isn't much to find. I'm sending ya everything now via email, to the account we agreed on, but most of it's jumbled. There's a ton of references to different thieves throughout history, and once I narrowed down the fields to anything during the eleventh to thirteenth century, only one thing came up constantly."

"What is it then? Spit it out."

"Sherlock, the only thing that really comes up is Robin Hood, and even that's sketchy. I can't find the full poem, if that's really what you sent me."

Sherlock had drifted off by then,his hands folded together in prayer and his phone clutched between them. Molly, seeing that Sherlock wasn't going to respond, took the phone. Sherlock looked at her funny, before shrugging, and slipping further into his mind.

"Umm, Wiggins. . .Sherlock's. . .sure about the poem thing. Is there anything else you found?" She asked hesitantly, not wanting to seem rude.

He simply let out a chuckle. "He drifted off with the phone, didn't he? Never mind, no, that's everything so far. Make sure he actually checks his email, he might find something we missed in the files I sent him."

"I will. Thank you Wiggins."

"No thanks needed, though they are appreciated. Glad to hear you're doing all right, heard about your little scare." Molly blanched. She would not call what had happened 'a little scare.' More like the most terrifying thing she had ever been through.

"Yes. . . right. Everything's fine now. . ."

The phone went dead after that. Seems even Wiggins could only go so far with pretending normalcy. What was with geniuses and not saying greetings or farewells?

"He's wrong." Sherlock said suddenly, snatching the phone back and shoving it into his pocket.

"Robin hood isn't an accident. That's the theme. It makes sense once you look at everything clearly."

Molly's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "How so?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't you see? He's given us all roles. I'm Robin Hood, stealer from the rich, giver to the poor, it's an allusion to the fact that I don't take cases simply for the money, but for the mystery, whereas Robin steals not for himself, but for his townspeople. Likewise, the timeline he's already established fits, because Prince John, the tyrannical leader, ruled during the crusades, when his brother, King Richard, was off fighting. They arrow as well, Robin Hood's iconic weapon of choice. So obvious!"

"Okay. . .and what of the other main characters? Little John, Friar Tuck, Maid Marian, Much, Guy if Gisbourne, the Sheriff of Nottingham?" She listed, naming those she remembered off the top of her heard. "Where are they in this?"

"You're Little John, obviously, as you are my companion through this, and right now, my closest confidant. I imagine Wiggins and the homeless network are the rest of my Merry men. Maid Marian is Robin's love interest, so obviously, she doesn't pertain to this story. The rest of them, Guy, the Sheriff, are parts of Moriarty's crew. Guy, as the leader of many of the legends, is most likely Moriarty himself." Sherlock chuckled darkly.

"What's so funny?"

"Don't you see? He's chosen the perfect story Molly. The wanted outlaw against the hated justice. Those who want me alive and know me to be help me as best they can while hiding me, but he, who has an infinite number of people at his disposal, gains their allegiance through blackmail and fear. It's perfect." His eyes, throughout his explanation, had seemed to darkness until they were almost black.

She gave him a worried look. "Sherlock. . .you're doing it again. . .referring to this like a game, instead of actual lives at stake."

Sherlock blinked, and his eyes lightened as he looked curiously at her, as though he hadn't realized she was there. "My apologies. . .Too far into my mind, it seems. But this is good. Now, we can beat him at his own game, because, as everyone knows, Robin hood always wins." he smirked.

"But not without losses. . ." she reminded him in a soft voice.

"Not this time." Sherlock assured. "I won't lose anyone." As he said this, he almost seemed to drift off again, and his voice took on a frantic note, so slight, Molly might have thought it wasn't there if not for the look in his eyes. He seemed genuinely terrified of losing someone important to him. . .it was -dare she think it - almost endearing.

To see him clinging onto his stoic facade, Molly pained for him. It must be so hard to hold on to all those emotions, never letting anything out.

She took his hand, and gave it a squeeze. "You won't." She gave him a small smile as he looked up into her face, startled by her gesture.

He returned her smile, and then, his eyes changed. Not in the scary, darkening way, like earlier, but in the curious, 'I'm studying something very interesting' way. "Hmm. . ." he mumbled, slowly leaning closer.

He moved slightly to be over her, and she had to look up to meet his eyes again. "Sherlock. . .?" Molly asked, when the distance between them was less than an inch.

"You've done it again Miss Hooper." he stated.

"Done what?"

"Astounded me."

"Umm. . ." Molly didn't have time to say anything else, because Sherlock closed the gap between them then. The kiss was chaste, a simple meeting of lips, but it left Molly breathless.

It only lasted for the briefest of time before the contact ended, just as quickly as it had started. Sherlock pulled away, looking completely unruffled compared to Molly, who felt like she was floating on cloud nine.

"I've got to go meet with Wiggins, try to discover the rest of that damned poem. Wait here." he said, and before she could so much as squeak a response, he was gone, and Molly was left sitting on the couch, wondering where that left them.


	10. Visitors

Molly inhaled and exhaled slowly as her brain started functioning properly once more. She blinked, once, then again, trying ti figure out if he. . .If Sherlock had actually. . . kissed her.

"Oh my god." She finally squeaked. "I'm dreaming, right? I'm still asleep on the couch. There's no way He'd kiss me." She pinched her arm hard to reaffirm her conclusion, and repeated the action when she didn't wake up.

"Oh my god. I'm awake. He just. . ." she turned a deep shade of red, and licked her lips, still feeling him there, even though he had walked out at least five minutes ago.

Molly shook her head, clearing her jumbled thoughts. "Enough Molly, it's no big deal. . .he's just. . .bored, that's it. But bored people don't kiss other people. Especially not Sherlock. But he just did." Molly groaned, and, clutching her knees to her chest, fell sideways on the couch so she laid down.

She stayed like that for a while, just thinking. There was no way she'd be able to look at him again without turning scarlet. Even the thought had her blushing.

She was brought from her thoughts by a ringing sound coming from the bathroom.

"Wha. . .oh." She sighed, recalling her cell phone was in her pants from yesterday. . .the ones currently splattered with another man's blood. And now it was ringing. And she had to answer it, or whoever was texting would worry, because she always replied.

Sighing, she stood, and walked to the bathroom to retrieve it. She hovered over the pile, her nose wrinkling from the awful scent. There was something different about smelling blood that was dried on your own clothes rather than smelling it during an autopsy. Still, she had to get her phone, so she sucked up the nerve, and pulled it form her pants pocket. Cringing slightly, she picked up the clothes and tossed them into the rubbish bin. She'd never wear them again anyways.

Finally, she looked down at her phone, and saw a notice for two new texts.

She checked who had sent them as she returned to her former position on the couch, and her eyes got wide. It was Sherlock. Sherlock, who had just left, was texting her. Why?

She opened the first one, which read:

May be gone a while. Stay put until I come back. - SH

Molly rolled her eyes. Where would she go? Certainty not anywhere she actually knew, considering their current situation. He had effectively stranded her here.

She opened the next one, thinking it was another reminder of some sort, but what it actually read shocked her.

I apologize. I would like to discuss my actions when I return. I don't know why I acted as I did. - SH

Her cheeks lit up once more. So, definitely not some dream or figment of her imagination then. Still, she couldn't not reply to either of them. When she finally did, she giggled a bit, considering her texting seemed much more confident than she felt.

Don't be sorry, I'm not. I'll wait for you here. Be safe. - Molls xx

Molly put her phone aside, and laid back down on the couch, purposely dangling her feet over one of the arm rests. It almost felt like home, she mused. All she needed was one of her books, a glass of red wine, and Toby curled up on her stomach.

Okay, that was a lie. At home, she wasn't waiting for Sherlock to come back. At home, she didn't get kissed by Sherlock. At home, her best friend was a four-legged feline, and her biggest entertainment was watching Glee, and singing along to the songs.

Yeah, this definitely wasn't home.

Sighing restlessly, Molly turned on her side, and decided to take another nap. With nothing to do, she might as well sleep, and wait for Sherlock to get back. He'd probably wake her up when he came back. That would be lovely.

So, with another sigh, she closed her eyes, and drifted off, thoughts of the kiss floating around her mind.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly was awakened a few hours later to the front door opening, as she thought. "Hmm." She mumbled peacefully. "Sherlock, what time is it?"

"Guess again, Little Mouse." a sickly familiar voice said.

Oh no. Molly thought, sitting bolt upright as she scrambled to face the door, and find her gun, which was nowhere in sight. Sherlock must have put it somewhere without telling her. she faintly remembered dropping it after it fired, but not what happened to it after.

"Tsk tsk, is that any way to greet your guests?" Jim Moriarty scolded with a grin, reading her thoughts from her actions.

Molly paused, half on half off the couch, and stared at Moriarty, her eyes wide as she tried to think of something to say. "What are you doing here?" she finally said, her voice shaking.

"Oh, you know." he answered coyly, pulling a pocket knife from his pocket. He walked closer, and Molly stumbled away, much to his amusement.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, and smirked. "Now now, no need for that, I just want to be comfortable." He said, obviously enjoying her fear. He sat down in a chair, and began cleaning his fingernails with the blade. "You know, you're more trouble than I thought you'd be Little Mouse." he said after a few moments of silence, raising his eyes to hers.

Molly shivered. If she ever thought Sherlock's dark eyes were scary, that was downright cuddly compared to the look Moriarty gave her as his eyes skimmed over her.

"I didn't do anything." Molly said, trying to make a stand for herself.

"DON'T." Moriarty suddenly screamed, jumping to his feet. "Don't lie to me. I know you helped Sherlock live, I know you killed my messenger. That doesn't seem like nothing, now does it Mousy Molly?" He taunted, taking a few slow steps closer.

"But that can be forgiven, because I still need you. Sherlock's once again missed the most important part of the game." He smirked wickedly as Molly rapidly backed herself into a corner. No where to run Little Mouse.

"What part?" Molly asked. "He knows about Robin Hood, and he's going to find the rest of the poem, and he'll end this." She spoke confidently, knowing, hoping, it was true.

Moriarty simply chuckled. "Stupid Little Mouse, you're ordinary, just like everyone else. You don't see the whole picture. Tell me," he said, standing a mere foot away from her, still playing with the pocket knife, "Has Sherlock discovered everyone's roles yet?"

Molly swallowed, then nodded. "Yes, he has."

"Good, then he'll know who Maid Marian is. I wonder then, why Sherlock's not protecting her." Moriarty grinned, running the knife down the side her her cheek gently as she shook with fear.

"T-there is n-no Maid M-Marian." She retorted quietly, her eyes trying their best to keep the knife in sight

He chucked darkly. "Wro-ong" he said in a sing song voice. "And he'll find that out soon enough."

Before Molly could react to stop him, Moriarty jammed something into her arm - a needle - and injected it's contents into her before stepping away. Whatever it was, it acted fast. Her vision blurred, and despite her best efforts, finally went black. Her last image was of two men walking in through the front door, and Moriarty's voice saying, "Load Maid Marian up."

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Moriarty watched coldly as his men carried Molly out of the apartment. This was revenge, plain and simple, on her, and on Sherlock. After all, he had said he'd burn the heart out of him. He should have known that his heart really wasn't in him at all. Of course, how could he, when Sherlock didn't even know yet?

He chuckled. Oh, this would be a fun game indeed.

With the blade of his pocket knife, he carved IOU into every wall of the living room, and then finally, on the coffee table as well.

He smirked, looking around at his handy work. It had been so easy to erase any way of finding the poem without the full verse. Finally, there was just one thing left to do. He pulled out his cellphone, and with a blocked number, texted Sherlock the last stanza, as well as a little taunting message.

'Some stealing away on Crusades' You know Robin, You really should watch your Maiden more closely. You never know when Guy may come for his lost love. - J

That finished, he followed his men, leaving the apartment empty of life, his game truly beginning.


	11. A Little Too Late

Sherlock had been walking for a few minutes, his mind still hazy, even with the clear distraction away from him. What had possessed him to kiss Molly? Sure, he had seen the signs, elevated pulse, dilated pupils, light blush, small smile, but he had never acted on her obvious attraction to him. Until Now.

His mind sorted through what could have made him act as such. Feelings, sentiment, neither were things he usually wanted or craved. They were weaknesses. And now, he was affected by one of them, against his better judgement. She had just looked so comforting.

He glared at the ground. Snap out of it Sherlock. You aren't some lovestruck teenage boy overcome by hormones. So think - why? The answer should have been obvious. It wasn't, and that annoyed him to no end.

Taking it apart piece by peace, the situation seemed to have no answer but one, and as he always said, when all else is eliminated, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be true. Except it couldn't be true. He didn't believe in feelings. He was a sociopath for a reason. Right?

So why had he felt his own heart rate pick up?

Sherlock ground his teeth together, and pulled his phone out of his pocket, not sure why until he scrolled through the contacts list to her name. What could he possibly say to her though? In the end, he settled on repeating what he had told her before leaving. Perhaps, in her obvious state of shock, she hadn't heard him. At least, that's what he told himself.

May be gone a while. Stay put until I come back. - SH

As he pushed send, he realized how wrong that felt. That wasn't what he meant. So what was? He tried again, and as he typed the words, he found that, once he stopped trying to over-think things, the right words came.

I apologize. I would like to discuss my actions when I return. I don't know why I acted as I did. - SH

When he once again pushed send, he realized that, yes, that was exactly what he wanted to say. Sorry.But he never apologized! He also noted that, yes, he did indeed want to talk about his actions towards her, and not just the moment before leaving the flat. There was so much more to discuss, things that he himself didn't want to admit to himself alone.

With that thought, he shut the lingering thoughts away in a small cupboard in his mind palace, and labeled the drawer 'to be examined further.'

He would have kicked Molly from his conscious thoughts all together had she not texted him back. He opened it, and read the message, his eyebrows knitting together.

Don't be sorry, I'm not. I'll wait for you here. Be safe. - Molls xx

That certainty didn't seem like her, but there was no mistaking it in the end. He half smiled, for a moment, then glared at the phone before shoving it into his pocket. Bloody hell, when had he become a sentimental fool?

He should be concentrating on finding Moriarty. He would deal with everything else after. Taking a deep breath, and with more resolve, Sherlock continued down a Subway tunnel to discuss things with Wiggins. As usual, he slipped a folded fifty pound bill into the waiting instrumentalist's case, but unlike usual, he turned to talk to the man, the same one who he had passed when they had left the Subway earlier.

He took out a different valued pound, and changed the folding method slightly before showing it to the man. "This is for my companion from earlier, I trust you remember her." he waited for the man to nod before continuing on his way, leaving the bill with the man. He knew the new fold, and it's meaning, would travel quickly amongst the others

The pound he had left indicated his wishes, and the method in which he folded it showed who it was for. He had given the man a twenty pound note, which meant protect or keep an eye on or for, and he had made a new fold her her. Only four people were included in his folds: John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and The Woman. Now, there was a fifth.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Sherlock sat in Wiggin's office, where he'd been for quite a while, each of them sitting on a computer as they tried to find the rest of the poem, or anything else that might lead them to Moriarty.

"I'm tellin' ya Sherlock, I've looked, there's nothing with those line ya gave me. Are you sure that it's a poem?" Wiggins asked, not for the first time.

"I'm positive. We're just missing something." He replied, rolling his eyes. "There's got to be something. What about the information I asked for? More details on the most popular Robin Hood legends."

"Just what I told you in the files I sent ya. Robin was an aristocrat who was denied his lands, so he started stealing with his buddies to protect his townspeople until his lands could be restored. He fell in love with -"

"Yes yes, Maid Marian, who has nothing to do with this. What else?" Sherlock interrupted.

Wiggins sighed, but continued. "Well, Robin and his men eventually were hunted down by a man named Guy, who came from Gisbourne, whom the Sheriff of Nottingham hired to kill Robin. Guy, who was previously engaged to Maid Marian, is - "

"Nothing about Marian, Wiggins. She doesn't mean anything to this rendition.

Wiggins glared. "I'm tellin' ya Sherlock, she's got to be somewhere in your cast of characters, she's too important to the story not to be, not shut up, and let me finish the damned story."

Sherlock pursed his lips, but stayed silent for him to continue.

"Anyways," Wiggins huffed, dragging out the word, "he was engaged to Maid Marian, so he's really pissed when he finds out she's with Robin. He kidnaps her, and, depending on the legend, either forces her to marry him, kills her, rapes her, or some combination of the three." he sighs. "Sherlock, if you're wrong, and she is in the story, you need to get to her, and protect her, because if Moriarty's Guy, then this ain't going to end well. Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm-" he was cut off when his phone rang. he had received a text. It was from a blocked number, which could only mean one thing: Moriarty decided to give him another clue. He smirked, until he read the words.

'Some stealing away on Crusades' You know Robin, You really should watch your Maiden more closely. You never know when Guy may come for his lost love. - J

"Wrong. I was wrong." Sherlock breathed, his face going pale. "Wiggins, add the phrase 'Some stealing away on Crusades' to the rest of the verses. Now."

Wiggins, his eyebrows knit together, did so, and as they waited for the results, he asked the question that he was dieing to know the answer to.

"Who's your Marian, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer, his mind processing the new information. He should have realized sooner. It all made sense. Stupid. And it was his fault. He had left her alone, knowing that Moriarty knew where they were. But he was Wrong. Maid Marian wasn't the empty roll; Little John was. It was so obvious, only his own stubbornness had hidden the truth. Little John was, of course, John, the real John, who had watched him die. Maid Marian was. . .

He was jolted from his thoughts by Wiggins saying, "Sherlock, you aren't going to like this."

"What is it?" He asked, leaning forward to see his computer screen. The poem in full was pulled up, and it read in full:

When nothing is left  
and all the good men are thieves:  
some stealing what they can in the night,  
some stealing away on crusades –

I found myself impaled  
like the townsfolk, and not

without a lover's kiss  
the Sheriff of Nottingham  
drew his small sword  
and found another sheath.

When the diadem falls  
so crumble walls, gold, church-beams,  
turrets, statuary,  
kingdoms, justice

\- The Rape Of Maid Marian

Sherlock paled further as Wiggins Repeated his earlier question.

"Who's your Maid Marian Sherlock? Who does that bastard have?"

"Molly."


	12. A Phone Call

When Molly woke up, she noticed a few things immediately. One, her hands were bound behind her back with something strong and cold, probably hand cuffs. Two, she was laying down on a surprisingly soft mattress. Three, she didn't seem to have any new injuries, though she did have a splitting headache.

The fourth realization came when a sickeningly familiar voice spoke. "Ah Molly, you're awake. Did you enjoy your nap?" The fourth realization: she was not alone.

She scrambled awkwardly to sit out, but only managed to twist until she faced Moriarty. He was in the same clothing as earlier, so, hopefully, not much time had passed. Of course, a few days could have passed, and she wouldn't know. The lighting in the room was dim, but from what she could make out, it was a legitimate bedroom, minus the windows and safe-homey feeling.

"What do you want?" Molly said, still groggy. Whatever drug he had used on her hadn't worn completely off.

Moriarty just smiled, and let out a chuckle. He was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, with his hands resting innocently on his knees. "I'm just playing a game, Molly. You know, I almost regret your involvement. Almost." Still, he looked like a small child, who got what he wanted for Christmas."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

His face suddenly hardened. "I did tell Sherlock if he got in my way, I'd burn the heart out of him. I'm just keeping my promise. And besides, I've always enjoyed playing with you. Didn't you enjoy it too, while it lasted?" he smirked, all traces of a child gone, replaced by more than a little cynical enjoyment.

She paled. "Y-you're wrong. I don't mean anything to Sherlock." she said, even though it hurt to do so. "And I never enjoyed being used by you. At least Sherlock's honest when he uses me." Finally, she was able to lift herself onto her knees, falling back to sit on her calves.

Moriarty chuckled. "Oh, how wrong you are, but it's all right; even Sherlock doesn't admit where his heart lies yet, but he will, before my little game is over, he will."

Then, he pulled out his cell phone. "I have an idea, let's call him!" again, he sounded so innocent and naive. "I'll even put it on speaker phone, so he can hear us both, won't that be fun?"

Molly shook her head, an obvious negative. "No, it's cruel. Why do you have to tease him? Why not just kill me and get it over with?" She asked, thinking that was her only possible fate.

"My dear Molly, my intention was never to kill you." he smirked mischievously. "I only plan to enlighten him. You haven't been completely honest with him, have you? Just a few dates, pish posh. Jim From IT was much more than that." he grinned wickedly before continuing. "I want to hurry along this part of the game. It's going to be so much fun, and doesn't everyone love fun?" With that, he dialed, and waited for Sherlock to pick up.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

By this time, Sherlock had rushed back to the apartment, and had examined everything, which, since Moriarty was involved, was actually. . .nothing.

There were no clues to examine to lead him on the correct path, no traces of what had happened aside from the obvious struggle. He knew where Molly had walked, knew no real violence had occurred, no blood shed, at least not in the apartment.

He was only surrounded by Moriarty's message: IOU.

All he could do was wait, for a call, or another clue to be presented to him. But waiting wasn't good enough. The poem's lines and names flashed through his mind again. If anything happened to Molly before he could fine her. . .

Enough. Sherlock shoved away his thoughts. He could not allowed himself to even think it, no matter how high the probability. Moriarty would not leave an empty threat as big as that one.

He was sitting on the couch, hands pressed together as if in prayer and pressed to his lips as he tried to find some minute detail he had missed, anything to help him find her before it was too late.

Then his phone rang, another blocked number. He answered immediately.

"Where is she?" He asked angrily.

"Oh Sherlock, how are you darling?" Moriarty replied, practically dancing in his seat, though Sherlock couldn't see.

"Where is Molly?"Sherlock asked again.

"Right here, why don't you say 'hi' dear?"

"Sherlock. . .I am so sorry." she said, trying to convey what she couldn't outright bring herself to say.

"That's enough sniveling, there's plenty of time for that." Moriarty scolded like an adult would to a child. "So Sherlock, did you like the poem? Was it as good a read for you as it will be for me?"

Sherlock's jaw went tight. "Moriarty, if you touch her, I will ki-"

"Too la-ate." He said in a sing song voice, not bothering to let Sherlock finish. Through the phone, Sherlock could hear what sounded like Molly begging for Jim to stop, but her voice was immediately covered by Moriarty's. "But I'll tell you what," he continued in that voice, "If you find us in under twenty-four hours, I promise not to do it again."

It took everything Sherlock had for him not to throw the phone. Moriarty would pay for what he did, that, he would make sure of. That thought alone was the only thing that kept Sherlock's temper in check. "What else?"

"Oh, nothing. Just make sure you don't mess up again. Maid Marian only has twenty-four hours before Guy find her hidden amongst Sherwood Forest's Merry Men."

After that, the phone went dead, and Sherlock, for all his control, hurled the device at the wall. It's screen shattered on impact.

Sherlock got up, and began to pace. Twenty-four hours. Moriarty had been generous, he knew. Her perhaps it was just the hard. He had to think. THINK!

He couldn't stay here, Sherlock realized. he had to get back to the subway, get the homeless network on it, now. He sped out the door, more than a little panicked.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly gulped as the call ended.

Moriarty put his phone into his pocket, and folded his hand on his knees. He just stared at her. It was disconcerting.

Finally, she asked, "What poem?" She had to know, if she wasn't going to be killed, then what?

He smirked. "Why, the rape of Maid Marian, of course." He checked his watch. "And Robin only has twenty-three hours and fifty-eight minutes left to prevent it." With that, he left the room, leaving Molly in tears as she contemplated her future.

She sent up a quick prayer. 'Sherlock, please find me.'


	13. Missing the Obvious

Exactly nineteen hours and twenty-six minutes had passed since Moriarty's call. Sherlock still had nothing, and was rapidly becoming the most infuriating man in England.

"There's got to be something Wiggins, we just aren't searching hard enough!" He exclaimed, glaring at the technological genius as he typed at his computer. Since leaving the apartment, Sherlock had returned to the underground office, and hadn't left at all. Neither would he allow the other man to leave, not until something was found. There had to be a clue in what Moriarty had said. He had managed to get a hold of some nicotine patches, and was currently wearing four, one more than he would have for his most difficult cases.

Wiggins let out one of many angry sighs. "Look Sherlock, I'm trying, but my boys haven't got much to work on. They can't find and sign of your girl anywhere, or of Moriarty, or anyone else you've mentioned. No one."

Your girl. Wiggins choice of phrasing hung in the air, but Sherlock, in a very un-Sherlock fashion, let it slide, because he didn't honestly know how to think of it. He focused instead on the resounding lack of information.

"Four hours, Thirty-one minutes. That's how long Molly has Wiggins. We have to find her. Moriarty hasn't contacted us, so the answer must be in the clues. We have the poem, the theme, the legends, his intentions. It has to be there. It has to be."

"Sherlock. . . You've always said He's a sick man. What if. . ."

"What?" Sherlock's eyes bored into Wiggins, as if daring him to finish it, while at the same time begging him to.

"What if you aren't meant to solve this riddle?"

Sherlock stiffened visibly. "Impossible. He always has a solution to his games." He said, standing with enough force to knock over his chair. "I have to call him." he sneered. He needed help. He needed his brother.

Wiggins' eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. The mere tone of his voice had told him who Sherlock was going to call. he knew the consulting detective enough to know that he wouldn't call Mycroft unless he really was at his wit's end. And also. . . only if it meant more to him than his pride.

"Sherlock. . . I don't mean to pry, but you were very adamant about there being no Marian in the tale, until the girl -"

"Molly." Sherlock interrupted. "Continue."

Wiggins, though annoyed, did. "Until Molly was taken. Now, you've practically been yanking your hair out trying to find her."

"Get to the point, Wiggins. I know you have one, and this is wasting time. Four hours, twenty-eight minutes."

"Quit interrupting me then!" Wiggins snapped. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, but held his tongue. "Thank you. Now, what I'm trying to ask is, what is she to you?"

"She's my pathologist." Sherlock answered instantly, giving Wiggins an annoyed look.

He rolled his eyes in response. "Damn it Sherlock, open your bloody eyes. Moriarty's using her against you, she's more than that to you, obviously."

Sherlock, for all his annoyance, sat back down and truly thought. "That's what she is though - My pathologist." He said it in a different tone though, more personal somehow, though Wiggins couldn't put his finger on it.

"All right. What does it mean that she's 'your pathologist.' " He asked more calmly.

Sherlock stayed silent for a while, just thinking about what Wiggins had asked. he closed his eyes, and delved inside his mind palace for the answer. He walked through the halls, to the wing he had made for the people he deemed memorable. Very few had their own rooms, most were clumped together, in categories such as Bart's Workers, or Scotland Yarders. He read the labels on the doors, passing by many such doors until he reached the more specific rooms. He passed doors labeled John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Moriarty before he finally stopped in front of the door he was looking for.

The plaque, make of a gleaming silver, read Molly Hooper. Unlike most of the doors in this hall way, which were made of simple dark woods with copper tinted handles, this door was a stunning polished white wood door with flower engravings etched at the bottom, and the knob was a shining sterling silver. Sherlock wondered when exactly the door had changed as he entered the room.

Like the door, the room had also changed drastically from it's former representation. Before, this room had closely resembled the morgue, with stainless steel tables and a generally cold atmosphere. His apparition of her used to stand, looking down at a clipboard in front of an autopsy table. Occasionally, there would be a body on the table, depending on if he had a case or not. And always, Molly's presence was small compared to the room, as if it held more meaning than the girl it was dedicated to.

Now, the room looked like a place Molly would dwell, with small hints of the morgue she loved. The walls were painted an off-white, with her pictures from her apartment and her father's military medals hanging up, and the floor was covered in a plush baby blue carpet. A lamp sat on a small side table, illuminating the room with a soft glow. A beige loveseat was pushed against the wall, and Sherlock sat down in it as he continued his examination. On a white coffee table in front of him, there were items that were distinctly Molly. An assortment of scented candles, a glass of red wine, and even, much to his amusement, a stack of the romance novels he had seen at her apartment. Beside the homey items were her gun, and a set of pristine hospital tools. These items, to him, seemed to somehow encompass what Molly was, softness and strength.

Finally, he looked up for the apparition of her. In every room, no matter what form it took, there was an apparition of the person the room defined. Where was she?

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned his head to the side. There, curled up on the other side of the loveseat, sat Molly, with damp hair, gazing in front of her with a dazed look on her face. Sherlock took a deep, surprised breath when he realized that this view of her was how he had left her after having kissed her.

He looked her over, trying to find the answer he sought. He did notice a pain in his chest as he examined her, but he couldn't name what it was. It hurt though. He couldn't talk to, or touch the apparition his mind had created, but he wanted to.

Then, it clicked in his mind. He knew, knew why Moriarty chose her to use against him, knew why he acted as he had. But he couldn't put it into words, he couldn't speak it, couldn't think it. Admitting it would be admitting what a fool he'd been. He couldn't deny either though, because the facts, the logic, in his assessment was there, and there really was only one possible answer.

Sherlock stood, and exited the room, and then his mind palace. His face was blank, but Wiggins had learned how to read the blankness.

"So, you've got your answer then?" He asked.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice sounded strained, even to him, and he cleared his throat before continuing. "I need your phone Wiggins. I need to call Mycroft." He didn't sneer his name this time.

Wiggins passed Sherlock the device. Sherlock called. Mycroft answered before the second ring had finished.

"Hello brother. After receiving your call about your little plan, I had expected to hear from you sooner." Mycroft began, "What else to you require?"

"Help. I need help. Molly's been taken." Sherlock replied. He didn't bother with their usual banter, or snide remarks. There wasn't time with what was at stake.

"Ah. . .Moriarty's alive as well then." Mycroft stated. It wasn't a question, but Sherlock answered anyways.

"Yes. He's captured her, and he intend to. . . harm her grievously both mentally and physically unless I find her in. . ." Sherlock paused to look at the clock, and his eyes grew wide as he realized he had wasted over an hour sitting in her room in his mind palace, looking for the obvious answer. "Three hours and twelve minutes."

"Tell me what you know."

Sherlock did just that. He left no detail behind, quoting exactly the poem, what he knew Moriarty's intentions to be, though his voice grew taunt at that point, and continued on until he told Mycroft of the phone call, quoting exactly what Moriarty had said.

"Sherlock. . . " Mycroft started, his tone strangely cautious, even for him, "Moriarty's become known for his simple solutions wrapped in confusion and chaos, correct? Everything is simple with him."

"Yes. What have you found?" Sherlock asked. Well, demanded.

"He's told you exactly where they are Sherlock. Sherwood forest, just outside of Nottinghamshire."

Sherlock stiffened as the realization of how wrong he was sunk in. Of course. Moriarty himself had scolded him on the roof for looking too deep and ignoring the obvious answers. He was wrong, again, and he last lost. He did the mental math. Nottinghamshire was just under three hours away. Sherwood forest was just over 1,000 acres. He was too far away, and there wasn't enough time to search. He had failed, and now Molly would pay the ultimate price.

No. Sherlock scolded himself. He wouldn't, couldn't give up. He would find her. "I need a car sent for me. You know where. Can you get people there ahead to search for her?"

"Already done little brother." Mycroft replied before he asked, "Just what does this girl mean to you?" Of course, he already knew. He had read and deduced the answer during their conversation. He just wanted to see how far along Sherlock was in his own knowledge.

Sherlock smirked knowingly into the phone, though Mycroft wouldn't see it. "She's my pathologist." He replied before hanging up. He tossed the phone back to Wiggins before leaving the room.

'I'll find you Molly.'


	14. Time Runs Out

Molly wasn't sure how long she sat on the bed, alone with only her thoughts and her prayers that Sherlock would save her. The cuffs on her wrist chaffed uncomfortably, but there was nothing to be done to fix it.

At some point, a sweet looking old woman that reminded her too much of the loving Mrs. Hudson came in, and gave her some food and water. She wasn't uncuffed, but the woman was patient, feeding her spoonfuls of a warm soup and occasionally lifting the bottle to her lips so she could drink. She was constantly talking and comforting Molly, telling her that everything would be fine, as if she didn't know her fate.

Then she was left alone for another few hours, until another woman, younger this time, and not nearly as nice looking, uncuffed her and dragged her to a bathroom. "Clean up." The woman practically growled at her, "You have an hour." Molly did as instructed, more out of a need to be clean and to relieve herself than a want to obey anything these people asked of her.

When that was done, she was re-cuffed, in the front this time, and led back to the room. The woman shoved her unceremoniously onto the bed before leaving. After that, Molly was left alone for a long time.

Eventually, bored, and with nothing else to do, she fell back onto the pillow, and drifted off to sleep, hoping that when she woke, Sherlock would be with her, and everything would be all right.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly was woken up by a hand gently shaking her by her shoulder. "Molly dearest, it's time for you to wake up." a familiar voice said in a sickeningly sweet tone. She was wide awake in an instant, and scooting as far away as the bed would allow.

Moriarty gave her a pained look, though she knew it was fake, and went to his seat from earlier. "You offend me Molly, it's not as if I mean you any harm." he said, continuing to speak in the sweet, loving tone that 'Jim from IT' used to use with her.

"Y-you're going to. . . to. . ." Molly couldn't bring herself to say it, still not giving up.

"Yes, well," Moriarty shrugged. "Blame Sherlock dear, he's the one who couldn't even catch the simplest of clues." Finally, he felt the facade fall, giving her a maniacal smirk.

"I don't blame him for anything. He'll find me, I know it." She spoke with more certainty than she felt. Moriarty chuckled darkly in response.

"Oh, you really don't know how little time you have left, do you?"

"H-how much time?" She asked, her throat tight and eyes wide. She hadn't even considered how much time she had slept, or how long she had.

"Fourteen minutes, my dear. He's barely even made it to the vicinity. Even with his brother's help, he won't find this place." He grinned devilishly. "We'll have fun, darling. I promise."

A shiver ran down Molly's spine. Trying to put on a brave front, she asked, "Why do you insist on calling me darling?"

Finally, Moriarty seemed lost for words, if only for a moment. He changed positions in his seat, until his elbows rested on his knees and his fists were under his head, fingers interlaced. "Good question. Maybe I like it, darling." He enunciated the word. "You know, it really isn't smart to break up with the most powerful criminal in the world, especially when he grows so fond of his toys."

She paled at the implications, that he - that Moriarty - might actually have had. . . feelings for her. "B-but you're gay!" she exclaimed, blushing.

Moriarty seemed surprised by her outburst. He let out a throaty laugh. "All a game, for Sherlock of course, really now, if I had been gay, do you think I would have - "

"Don't, please." Molly said, cutting him off. She looked down at the bed, ashamed and embarrassed as memories preferably forgotten came flooding back to her.

Moriarty ignored her pleading. He stood, and approached the bed, grabbing her under her chin and lifting her gaze up to his. "Do you think I would have taken you as you cried my name in ecstasy, if I had been gay?" He watched with glee as her face contorted with shame.

He kissed her roughly then, pressing his lips hard against hers, and forced his way between her lips as she gasped. He thoroughly ravaged her mouth, despite her own lack of participation. She tried to push against his chest, to make him step away, but with her wrists cuffed, and with him being stronger than her, it was no use. When he was good and ready, he pulled away, and looked down at his watch, smirking.

"And, my dearest Maid Marian, you're all out of time."

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Sherlock arrived in Sherwood forest with only ten minutes left on the clock. He had met up with one of Mycroft's officials in Nottinghamshire, hoping for news in the village, but there was nothing.

He approached his brother, who was waiting for him close to his drop off point. "Has there been any luck Mycroft?" He asked, almost desperately. His brother cocked an eyebrow. He felt genuine remorse for his oncoming response, seeing his brother in such a distressed fashion.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. No sign of Moriarty or the girl yet."

"Molly, Mycroft. Her name is Molly." Sherlock corrected instantly, scowling. "How much more of the forest is there?"

"Still about 200 square miles, I'm afraid. Her time is slipping fast, Sherlock. Are you prepared for -"

"Don't you dare say it Mycroft." He warned, a dark look in his eyes. "Finding her after is not an option. Don't consider it." His voice was almost a growl, holding his hatred, anger, and frustration all in one sound.

"Sherlock." Mycroft said in his controlling voice, "You must view all options, and as much as you wish to deny this actuality, even I can't tear this forest apart to find her any faster."

"I know that." He sneered. "But Molly doesn't deserve this Mycroft, you don't know her."

"And you do?" he countered.

"Yes."

"How do you know her so well then?

"Because she's My Pathologist." Sherlock replied, glaring at his brother.

Mycroft blinked a few times, surprised by the undisguised emotions on his brother's face. He had realized on the phone, but now, seeing it in person. . . His bother had actually fallen to sentiment. Even worse, Sherlock was in. . . Love. "What does that mean, Sherlock?" He pushed, both amused an concerned for his little brother.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "It means she's Mine."

"Sherlock." He used the tone he had learned from Mummy, the one that said he knew Sherlock was hiding something, he just wanted him to admit it out loud.

"Really Mycroft, now?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yes, little brother, now."

"Damn it, she's My Pathologist, and I. . ." He stopped as he heard a beeping; the alarm on his watch had gone off. "And I'm too late. . ." he sounded broken.


	15. The Rape of Maid Marian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that contains the Non-Con. If for some reason you clicked to read this story despite the warnings in the tags, this is the chapter to skip.

Oh God no. Molly thought as Moriarty descended on her. He kissed her roughly again, and grabbed her cuffed wrists to stop her from pushing him away any more. She heard a clicking, and suddenly her arms were yanked over her head, as he broke away from her as she heard another clicking sound. She tugged at her arms, trying to pull them back down, but they were secured with something. She looked up and saw just what it was.

The hand cuffs that held her wrists together now haw another set on them, with the other link attached to the head board. She tugged futilely a the bonds as Moriarty stood, and hovered over her. "You really do look lovely restrained Molly." he cooed, running a finger across her cheek gently.

"Don't touch me." She hissed, pulled as far away from him as her bonds would allow.

He made a few tsking sounds as he placed the keys to the cuffs onto a small bedside table. "Now Molly, where's the fun in leaving you alone?" he asked with a chuckle. Slowly, as if he was teasing her, he began to unbutton his shirt, never breaking eye contact with her.

He slipped the garment off, then removed his trousers in short order as well.

He approached her, in nothing but his boxers, and straddled her as she shivered underneath him, still fully clothed. "You'll enjoy this Molly, I'll make sure of it." he purred, caressing her clothed sides as he leaned in to kiss her again.

Molly kept still, not reacting to his touches. When she felt something hard press against her inner thigh, she kneed up hard, and was rewarded by a groan of pain as Moriarty fell off her and even, much to her amusement, off the bed with another groan.

"You're. . .going to regret that bitch." Moriarty snarled when he was finally able to stand up again. His eyes shot daggers into her, and she quivered with fright. as she responded.

"Fuck you Jim." Even through her fear, she glared back at him.

Strangely, her reaction seemed to amuse him, even as he continued to glare. "I always knew you were feisty. I can't wait to see that beautiful spirit broken." He grabbed one of her legs, and with a length of rope she hadn't previously noticed, secured it down to the bottom of the bed, then repeated the motion with her other leg.

"No more kicking, Miss Hooper." He smirked, climbing back on top of her. "And this time, I won't be gentle."

"It's Doctor Hooper." She retorted as she strained against the ropes.

She wasn't expecting it when he slapped her hard across the face, and she whimpered in response. "Don't correct me, Miss Hooper." he snarled, suddenly much more angry and animalistic.

He reached over the edge of the bed, and pulled something - a pocket knife - from a pocket in his trousers. He opened the blade, and skimming it across her cheek, the one he had just slapped, eliciting another small whine from her.

"Much better." he praised her as he drew the knife down, to the collar of her shirt. Rather than simply lifting it up, He sliced and tore at the fabric with the knife, somehow controlling it enough that it never cut Molly, only grazing her skin as the material fell off the the side even as he jerked the knife through it.

As he finished, and the shirt parted completely, he sat up to examine his handy work. "You know, this look suits you, Molly." He smirked, as he set the knife aside and dragged his hands down her sides, digging his nails in and leaving a trail of painful grooves in their wake. She whimpered, but otherwise stayed silent. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction to hearing her scream.

"What, not going to cry for mercy?" He asked tauntingly, cupping her breasts roughly through her bra. Despite her best efforts not to, she let out a whimper of pain.

Pleased with his accomplishment, Moriarty retrieved the knife again, and slipped it under the center of her bra, this time cutting that away to leave her bare beneath him. He closed and set the knife away for the last time before cupping her breast again, this time digging in with his nails as well, leaving little semi-circles where they dug into the soft flesh. Molly let out another pained squeal.

"I do love the noises you make." he said before kissing her roughly, forcing his tongue into her unresponsive mouth as she let out a gasp at the contact.

His bare skin against hers caused her body to betray itself. She felt her nipples harden under his hands, and a warm tingling feeling between her legs. Stop, please. She begged her body silently. Stop reacting to this mad man.

It didn't work of course, and without her wanting to, she let out a quiet moan of unwanted desire.

Moriarty pulled away, looking rather pleased with himself. "I always knew you would enjoy being dominated." He said, scratching his nails down the flat plane of her stomach, leaving more painful red lines. He slipped his thumbs into the hem of her trousers, and pulled them down, snagging her knickers as well. He left them bunched at her knees, and leaned forward over her again.

"You're going to enjoy this. I'm going to make you scream." he assured, once of his hands going back up to her right breast to pinch one of her delicate nipples as the other moved south, stroking her folds.

"Please. . . stop." Molly panted, closing her eyes as if that would some how stop him.

Ignoring her plea, Moriarty plunged two fingers into her center, and began pumping into her without giving her time to adjust to the intrusion. "You're already wet for me Molly, did you know that? You're enjoying this, aren't you, naughty girl."

"F-fuck y-you Jim." Molly stuttered through her biting retort as she resisted the urge to moan again, giving him more satisfaction.

"Since you insist." Moriarty replied smoothly, taking her words an entirely different way than she intended. He slipped his fingers out of her, and stripped away his boxers before straddling her again, his hard length resting just above her entrance.

He grabbed her hips, and slammed into her, thrusting to the hilt without pause, giving her no time to adjust. She shrieked in pain at the sudden intrusion. "Ah, there's that lovely shriek I was waiting for." Moriarty practically purred into her ear. "Do it again for me, won't you?" He asked, pulling out almost fully before he shoved into her again, eliciting another shriek, louder than before.

"Glorious." he hissed, rapidly increasing his pace. He trailed kisses and love-bites down her neck, even as Molly tried to move away. Moriarty simply wrapped a hand around her neck, and forced her to stay in place as he made a particularly dark hickey on her neck, then, for good measure, he bit her hard enough to cause her to bleed, circling the dark mark with an impression of his teeth.

Molly screamed in earnest as he bit her, and the screams didn't stop, almost like a flood gate had opened. She barely breathed between her ungodly shrieks as all her emotions pored out through her vocal chords. Her pain, her terror, her angst, were pulled from her as Moriarty pounded roughly into her, no longer concerned with marking her flesh with his painful bites.

Eventually, after who knows how many shrieks, he spent himself inside her, and collapsed on top of her. "You really are something Molls." He panted, kissing her lips lightly, as if he was an actual lover and not a deranged man who had just stripped her of any remaining dignity.

She sobbed, eyes still closed, unable to reply any other way. Pain coursed through her entire being, from her wrists above her head, rubbed raw from her constant struggling, to her ankles, with rope burns circling from her tugging at the bonds.

Moriarty shushed her gently, caressing her cheeks as he brushed away her tears. "It's all right Molls, I'll just be going now, I'll even help Sherlock find you. It really is such a lovely view after all." his tone shifted from comforting to cruel mid way through, and she just continued to sob.

"Poor Molly." Moriarty sighed as he finally got off of her. With deft motions, he retrieved his clothes and redressed himself before pulling out his cell phone to send his final text to the consulting detective.

She really is a good lay. You should try it sometime. Look up, and you might actually find her hide out. - JMx

Pleased with the day's accomplishments, Moriarty clicked his phone shut, and walked out of the room, leaving Molly and her sobs behind him.

As the door clicked shut behind Moriarty, he felt. . .


	16. Saving Molly

She really is a good lay. You should try it sometime. Look up, and you might actually find her hide out. - JMx

Pleased with the day's accomplishments, Moriarty clicked his phone shut, and walked out of the room, leaving Molly and her sobs behind him.

As the door clicked shut behind Moriarty, he felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against his temple.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

"Really Mycroft, now?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yes, little brother, now."

"Damn it, she's My Pathologist, and I. . ." He stopped as he heard a beeping; the alarm on his watch had gone off. "And I'm too late. . ." he sounded broken.

"Sherlock. . ." Mycroft was about to give his condolences when Sherlock made a quick silencing motion.

"Shut up, Mycroft, I'm thinking." Sherlock began to pace rapidly, walking back and forth across a path only he could see. He shoved his shame aside to really think. Moriarty had been so obvious, so what was obvious? They were somewhere in the vicinity, but the vicinity was a little over 1,000 square miles, even with only 200 square miles remaining, not centered enough.

Wait. Center. Of course. Moriarty wouldn't have hidden in the edges of the forest, He would be in the center, the deepest part of the forest. He'd make his hideout so it could only be seen from the ground as well, because he wanted Sherlock to work for it. He was above ground, up. . . up. Up. In a tree. No, In an Oak tree, as was outline by the Robin Hood legends he was drawing from. Of course. A Major Oak, hollowed out to hide them in plain sight, just as Robin's men were alleged to use. All the answers were there.

"I know where she is." Sherlock stated, turning mid stride back to Mycroft. "Find the center, the very center of this bloody forest. She's inside a hollowed out tree near the center. Massive, if you weren't looked specifically for one, you would miss it. Now, Mycroft."

Mycroft's eyes got wide. "Of course brother." a few calls, and all his men were suddenly swarming one area, a small square mile of forest at the very center of Sherwood Forest.

They found the tree in less than thirty minutes. Too long, according to Sherlock. Much too long.

Sherlock and Mycroft stood at the entrance, a simple wooden set of steps that blended smoothly into the Oak, it was nearly invisible. It was no wonder than on the first sweep Mycroft's men had missed it. Sherlock gazed up at the path the stairs took, jaw clenched.

"What do you want to do now, little brother?"

"Give me a gun, and get me into that damn tree Mycroft." Sherlock said coldly.

"Done."

Within minutes, a gun was supplied to the younger Holmes, as well as a bullet proof vest. "Good luck, Sherlock. I sincerely hope you find him."

"I plan to do more than that when I do." Sherlock replied.

Without waiting any longer, Sherlock climbed the steps. He found himself on a small balcony, With a Hollowed out entrance in front of him. He didn't paused before heading inside. Despite his disgust, he couldn't help but admire the tree's interior. Moriarty had obviously worked hard to make sure that on the outside, it looked like an ordinary tree, and on the inside, it looked like a home.

Then, he heard the screams. Molly's screams. He sped his pace, surprised by the lack of guards but uncaring. If Moriarty wanted to be cocky, it was no problem of his.

The shrieks came to an abrupt end as he neared the door, and he pressed his ear against the door to hear.

Molly was sobbing uncontrollably, and Moriarty, curse him, couldn't help but taunt her. "It's all right Molls, I'll just be going now, I'll even help Sherlock find you. It really is such a lovely view after all."

Dead. Moriarty was a dead man. Everything else was muffled by Molly's loud keening cries, so Sherlock couldn't hear what else Moriarty said, but he did feel the vibrations against his leg as he received a text.

The door opened, and Sherlock placed the muzzle of his gun against Moriarty's forehead as he pulled out his mobile, and read the text out loud to him.

"She really is a good lay. You should try it sometime. Look up, and you might actually find her hide out." Sherlock sneered and shut his phone, calmly putting it back in his pocket. "So, Moriarty, have I found the right place?" he asked, cocking the gun.

Moriarty turned, and grinned into the muzzle of the gun. "Too La-ate." he said in a sing song voice, not even pausing to contemplate the ramifications.

"Fuck you, Moriarty." Sherlock cursed, pulling the trigger. As Moriarty fell, Sherlock shot him again, and again. He would not be coming back.

Sherlock took a deep breath before kicking his body aside, and entering the room. "Molly?" He said her name, though it came out as more of a question as he viewed his pathologist bound to the bed, utterly broken by her sobs and Moriarty's evident abuse.

"Molly, It's me. . . It's Sherlock." He said softly as he approached the bed. He moved to brush a strand of hair from her face, and she flinched away from his touch as if it burned her.

"D-don't touch me Jim." She begged, refusing to open her eyes to the truth. Sherlock wasn't coming, he didn't care, was too late. . .didn't care. . .

Sherlock felt his throat constrict with an emotion he had yet to feel, could not identify. "I'm so sorry Molly." He muttered, moving to untie her legs. He winces at the deep rope burns and welts around where they had been secured.

Next, he glanced around the room for a way to free her wrists. He spotted the keys that Moriarty had left, and shook his head in disgust as he retrieved them.

Molly had pulled her legs up and closed the moment they were free. "J-just leave me alone. . . please." she begged again, struggling with renewed vigor at the cuffs, digging them deeper into her wrists. Sherlock could see small trails of blood running down her arms from the effort she was using to get free.

"Molly, wait, I'm going to uncuff you. . . stop hurting yourself." Sherlock asked, placing a gentle hand on her bare shoulder. She shuddered, and moved away from his touch.

He sighed heavily, and unclasped her wrists in her momentary stillness. She allowed them to fall for only a moment before she gripped her knees and hugged them close. She buried her head between them, and cried loudly.

Sherlock ran a gently caressing hand through her hair. "Molly, we have to go, please. . . Look at me." He was begging, though he'd never admit it. He couldn't stand to see his pathologist look so broken.

She shook her head a rapid no, and once again pulled away from his hand. "J-just kill me. . . Get it over with." she said between sobs.

"You're wrong." Sherlock began, "You count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you, and I'm not going to hurt you. Please, look at me Molly Hooper." He began with the words he had spoken to her in the office, hoping it would draw her out.

"Sh-Sher-l-lock?" She said hesitantly, finally peaking up from her knees, her eyes red and swollen, and her voice rough from her earlier screaming.

"Yes Molly, it's me. . . I'm real, I'm here." he assured, hesitantly brushing her tears away with his thumbs.

It was as if a light flicked on inside her. Molly dove at him, holding his waist like a life line. "Sh-erlock" She cried his name repeatedly into his chest as she sobbed.

"Shh. . . It's all right now Molly. It's all right." He soothed, pulling her into his lap as she buried her head in his chest.

Their position reminded him vaguely of how they were at the safe house, after Molly had gone into shock because of killing the man to save him. He rocked her slowly as she cried, and realized with a slight shock that unlike that time, he truly was trying to comfort her in his own way, not just mimicking what he had seen others do.

' My Molly. . . I am so sorry this happened to you because of me. '


	17. I Don't Blame You

Sherlock simply held Molly as she cried, using previously unknown stores of patience. Even as she slowly pulled away from him, the tears never fully stopped. Still, unbelievably, she put on a brave face as she muttered, "C-can we please go now?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course Molly, as soon as you're decent. I don't want Mycroft or his men to see you in this state." She said, cupping her face gently, and wiping her current tears away, even as they were replaced by new ones.

"Wha. . ." Molly started before realizing that the entire time she had been pressed against him, her chest and upper body was bare. She pulled the tattered remains of her shirt together, blushing fiercely as she stumbled through unnecessary apologies.

Sherlock shushed her gently, and laid a soft kiss on her forhead. "You don't have to apologize Molly." Despite her knowing she was safe, she flinched away from his soft touch. He was more than a little hurt, but he didn't blame Molly for her reactions to him, because he knew it wasn't her fault.

He gently set her down on back on the bed and stood. He removed the bullet proof vest Mycroft had insisted he wear, and held it out to her. "I know it's not a proper shirt, but it should keep you covered until one can be retrieved." He said simply.

Molly nodded as she took the vest, and slipped it on over her head. It chaffed her bare skin, and bunched up the remnants of her shirt and bra awkwardly, but she was thankful for the extra coverage. "Thank you. . . For coming for me." She muttered, looking down at her wrists. She shuddered as she looked at the blood the still slowly trailed across her skin from the open wounds.

"Don't thank me." Sherlock replied, swallowing. "I got here too late. Because of me, because of your involvement with me, you were brutally restrained and. . . ." Sherlock skimmed over the word before continuing, "This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't come with me, hadn't helped me." Anyone could hear the shame and disdain in his voice as he finished.

She wanted to say something, anything, to let him know that she didn't blame him, but the usually expressive pathologist couldn't find any way to express those thoughts. She just felt numb, and she hated that, but at the same time she was glad for the numbness, because it blocked out the sickening feeling of Jim - no, Moriarty - on her skin.

Sherlock took her silence to mean she blamed him. He couldn't, and didn't blame her for such feelings. Feelings that he felt to his core. And he hated it, this new found sentiment, and openness to feelings, but he also clung to them, because they made him feel more human than he ever had before.

"We have to go. Can you stand?" Sherlock asked, not looking at her. He couldn't bear to see the broken light in her eyes.

"Yes." She replied, stepping slowly off the bed. She clutched the banister to keep herself steady, and for or a moment, she thought it might be fine. As soon as she released her grip, her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground with a thud, banging her knee caps painfully on the hard floor. "Sorry, clumsy me. . ." Molly said, making no move to get up. Her legs didn't seem to want to move anymore.

Sherlock bent down beside her. "Its all right. I'll carry you." He gave her plenty of warning before he picked her up, one hand under her arms and the other under her knees, bridal style. She tensed at first, and shivered slightly, but knowing it was Sherlock who held her allowed her to remain relatively calm. Or, at least, it stopped her from having an all out panic attack.

"Molly, I need you to close your eyes before we leave. I don't want you to see him." Sherlock warned. Her eyes got wide as comprehension donned, and she nodded before shutting her eyes, and burying her head in his chest once more. A part of her felt like she was on fire with the knowledge that Sherlock had killed someone. For her. She didn't know how to feel about that. She certainly wasn't going to cry about his death. Another, darker part of her was glad, elated even, to know that he was dead.

Sherlock's steady swaying as he carried her out relaxed her, and, snuggled into his chest, Molly was actually able to sleep as he brought her to safety.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Sherlock knew the instant Molly fell asleep in his arms. Her breathing became deep and even, and her hand unconsciously came up to grab a handful of his shirt for comfort. He looked down at her, and his face softened with a small smile. "Brave Molly, I don't know what I never saw in you." He said quietly, brushing his lips against her forehead.

He stood on the balcony, and whistled loudly for Mycroft, who looked up. He nodded silently, seeing his brother's predicament, and, with a safety harness, like the kind they use to airlift people in, and a crane, soon Sherlock was standing on the forest floor. Molly was still curled up against him, her sleep unimpeded.

Mycroft approached them both, deducing what had happened from Molly's state, the slight blood spatter on Sherlock's shirt and boots, and, more obviously, the gun shot he had heard not too long ago.

Sherlock and he exchanged a glance, each speaking volumes to the other without words, and slowly, Sherlock nodded. No denying. He didn't care what his brother, or anyone else, thought.

"A car will be provided to take you back to Miss Hooper's home." Mycroft said finally.

"It's Doctor Hooper, Mycroft." Sherlock corrected instantly, before continuing. "Thank you." It was an honest thanks, no sneering or goading tone.

Mycroft nodded, and made a quick call. Everyone working in the area was sent home with very specific instructions: this day didn't happen. Anyone who said otherwise was a traitor to the British Government.

Two black cars met them at the edge of the forest. Mycroft got into one. Sherlock, with Molly sitting in his lap, still asleep, sat in the other. As they both went their separate ways, Sherlock looked down at Molly, and, for the first time since his childhood, sent a prayer to a god he wasn't sure he believed in. A prayer for Molly.


	18. Secrets and Sentiment

Molly was asleep for several hours. Sometimes she dreamed of strong arms around her, keeping her safe. Other times, she had nightmares of being restrained, and she'd scream for her savior, who always seemed just out of reach. It was during those times when she could have sworn she heard a voice, familiar and reassuring, telling her everything was fine, that she was safe, and she'd drift back into her kinder dreams of strong arms and a promise of something more.

After a while, she woke, though she didn't realize it at first, because she was still cradled in those same wonderful arms. As she shifted, the arms tightened, pulling her against something warm and solid.

"Are you awake, Molly?" The voice of her savior asked, deep and caring. It seemed like a familiar phrase, something she had heard often in her sleeping state, but never had the strength to respond to until now.

"Hmm." She hummed, finally peaking her eyes open. What she hadn't expected, was for the voice to be real, but she was met with the sight of a very real chest in front of her, covered only by a plain gray shirt. Immediately, she pushed against it, feeling trapped.

Sherlock let her go instantly, before she could work herself into another frenzy. He quickly moved as far as the bed would allow, and waited patiently for Molly to get her bearings.

With the arms gone, Molly sat up, and pushed herself against the headboard of a very familiar feeling bed. She looked around the room shocked to see her own possessions surrounding her. Home. She was home. But how? She couldn't remember anything past that horrible room, and Sherlock picking her up and. . . Oh. Sherlock.

She took a few calming breaths before looking over at him, and giving him a soft smile. "Sorry. . . I'm all right now, I think." She said, her voice still a bit shaky. "Can you. . . Come back over here please. . . And tell me what happened after. . ." She let her voice trail off, knowing he'd understand.

Sherlock, after looking her over, slowly nodded, and returned to her side. In a seemingly absentminded gesture, he took one of her hands in his, and began tracing patterns on her knuckles as he spoke. "I carried you from the room, you had fallen asleep quickly. Mycroft helped me find you, and later get you from the area. I brought you home. You've been asleep sixteen hours."

Molly nodded, and, ever so hesitantly, she lay her head on his shoulder, needing his presence outside the dream as well. Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

"Thank you. For saving me, and bringing me home, and staying." She said quietly as he finished.

Sherlock nodded, though he didn't feel he deserved her thanks. "Don't thank me for saving you Molly. It's my fault. I should have left you out of it, instead of dragging you along."

"I don't blame you." Molly said quietly, her voice muffled in his arm, but Sherlock heard her just the same.

"Why don't you?" He asked, looking down at her, his eyes gentle.

Molly swallowed before speaking, clearly nervous, but it was something she had to say. "You didn't drug me, or tie me up, or r. . ." Her voice cracked, and she skipped over the word before continuing, "You came for me, and brought me from hell. If I blamed you, then Jim would have won, because she wanted me to blame you, but I don't, so please don't blame yourself either."

There she was again, Sherlock thought, amazed, that wonderfully strong woman he had somehow mistaken for weak and mousy and so easily used. What a fool he had been, to not see her for what she was.

"But the worst part is," Molly continued, unaware of Sherlock's thoughts, "I don't deserve you, because he's used me, so many times, and I deserved it."

Sherlock stiffened. "You could never deserve what he did to you Molly. Why would you think that?" He asked, lifting her head up with his free hand to look into her eyes, cloudy with unshed tears.

"He was only taking what I'd already given him before." Molly muttered, unable to meet his eyes even as he looked into hers. She let her words sink in, and Sherlock released her chin.

"During his phone call, when he said he had already touched you, he wasn't talking about abducting you." Sherlock stated, realizing the implications. "Explain." He said quietly, slightly more reserved now. He wondered how he had missed something like this. His feelings, he realized, hadn't changed with this new knowledge. It was true then, that something as illogical as feelings, would not have a logical solution. He continued drawing shapes into the back of her hand, a soothing motion for both of them.

Molly nodded, and looked down at their hands as she spoke. "It was our third date. . . He seemed like such the gentle man. Now I realize it was all a game, obviously, but, at the time, he was just the sweetest thing. He invited me out for a drink and dinner with him. We ate, and talked a lot that night. . . And drank a bit as well. He escorted me home, and we were both a bit tipsy by then. . . Well, I was. . . I asked him to stay. . . And he did. The next day, he was so apologetic, said he hadn't meant to rush. Then he wanted to meet you, because I had spoken about you a bit during dinner. And, well, you remember. Gay Jim from IT." Finally, the words just stopped coming, and Molly sighed, that burden off her chest.

"Why does that mean you deserved it?" Sherlock asked quietly, sensing an end to her words.

"Because he-"

"Used you to get to me, with something I wouldn't even admit to myself at the time." Sherlock finished, cutting off her self-condescending words to do so.

"How could sleeping with me possibly bother you?" Molly asked, looking up at him. "You didn't even care about me back then."

"You're wrong." He said simply. Vaguely, he realized his heart beat had sped up, his breathing gotten just slightly more erratic and heavy. Nervous, be believed the emotion was called.

"What do you mean?" She asked, swallowing again. Meeting her eyes, Sherlock noticed similar signs in her, deeper breathing, dilated pupils, a high pulse beating in her wrist. She saw, but refused to observe until he confirmed.

"I told you the day I died." Sherlock began, "You've always counted and I've always trusted you. It just took me too long to realize what that meant. I've always noticed you, more than anyone else. I've deduced you, solved you like a puzzle, but every time I thought I had all the pieces, I'd find a new one, and it frustrated me, so I took it out on you. You, who have been a constant variable in my life, whether it was by bringing me coffee or supplying me with body parts for my experiments. I know, even now, you don't understand, and don't want to believe, because you see but do not observe. I want you to feel this now, Molly."

He lifted the hand he held up to the pulse point on his neck, allowing her to feel the hammering of his heart that had only increased as he tried to put into words how he felt. Failing miserably, he decided to just show her. He shifted slightly so he could lean over her, and look into her eyes. "You feel it. Observe, Molly. High pulse, dilated pupils, fast breathing. You have the same symptoms when you look a me. What does that tell you that words cannot?"

Molly knew exactly what it meant, and finally, the tears bubbled up. Sherlock released her hand, and it remained on his pulse point as he wiped the tears from her eyes.

"You've been mistaken as weak, when in fact you are an incredibly brave, strong woman Molly Hooper. It took me far too long to realize that. Can you forgive me?" Sherlock asked quietly, his eyes never leaving hers.

Instead of replying, Molly simply pulled him down for their first of many kisses to come.


	19. Kiss Away The Pain

The kiss was soft and sweet as Molly's hands cradled his face. Sherlock, though at first surprised, found himself reacting in kind, his lips molding to hers tenderly.

As one, their lips opened for each other, their tongues meeting hesitantly, and, seemingly out of no where, Molly froze, and a shiver ran down her spine.

Sherlock sighed, pulling away slowly. He could see the signs, feel her reaction. He didn't want to scare her, and with the recent events, this - whatever this led to - could send her into a panic attack, which was the last thing he wanted.

Molly saw the indecision in his eyes, and swallowed before speaking. "Please. . . I want this Sherlock. . . Just. . . go slow, okay?" She asked, begging with her eyes.

Sherlock looked her over, before nodding. "All. right."

They restarted, another slow, gentle kiss, building into more. Again, as their tongues brushed, Molly stiffened, but this time, she managed to relax quickly as well, allowing them to deepen the kiss further. Light sighs came from both of them as they explored each other. Sherlock, amazingly gentle, allowed her to lead the kiss until both of them were gasping.

It was only when Sherlock's hands bag an to roam down her sides that Molly had another adverse reaction. A small whine, and Sherlock pulled away again, removing his hands from her as well.

"Sorry. . ." Molly muttered, looking away. Gods did she want this. Why did her body continue to force her to relive it? All she wanted was to forget in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock's lips brushed her forehead soothingly. "It's all right Molly. " he muttered, sighing again. "I'm not going to do anything to hurt you. We can wait until you're ready. This isn't required for me to want you." Sherlock spoke calmly, and, slowly, Molly turned her head back to look into his eyes.

"It's not that. . . I trust you. . . I want to. . . Please." She said, her voice small.

Sherlock nodded slowly, and kissed her lightly before pulling away again. He continued to meet her eyes as he repeated his earlier motions, running his fingertips lightly down her sides. She shivered again, but remained calm, and nodded when Sherlock silently asked with his eyes if it was all right.

An idea formed in Sherlock's mind, a thought based around a body's ability to react to situations based on passed experiences the mind rejected to wished to avoid. It was a type of muscle memory, and the reason Molly reacted as she did. But, he noticed, replace the bad muscle memory with good, and the second time was a much less violent reaction. It obviously had something to do with the choice of partner, most likely with the difference in the feelings the touches produced, all boiling down to positive versus negative stimulation.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock asked quietly, though she had said so earlier. He had to be sure.

"Yes. I trust you Sherlock." Molly replied, smiling softly.

Sherlock returned her smile, and kissed the tip of her nose before continuing, "Will you allow me to try an experiment?"

Molly's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "What kind of. . . Experiment?" He asked hesitantly. With Sherlock Holmes, you never could tell.

"A healing one." He responded. "I have a theory. Are you comfortable with removing your shirt?"

Molly drew back slightly. What was going through his mind? Still, she nodded. "All right. . . " she mumbled, blushing. Sherlock withdrew totally from the bed, and she sat up.

Of her own free will, which definitely made a difference, she slowly pulled her shirt over her head, and let it fall to the floor as he watched. She felt exposed, bare under Sherlock's gaze and she suddenly became aware of every scratch he had dug into her body with his nails, of every ugly hickey he had bruised her skin with, particularly the large one, circled by the bite mark on her neck. She covered it with her hand, and looked down at the sheet, embarrassed.

Sherlock waited patiently. Eventually, Molly looked up again shyly, and he smiled before slowly approaching the bed again. He kissed her lightly, a fleeting brush of his lips against hers.

"If anything I do bothers you, I'll stop." He assured cupping her cheek gently. Molly nodded, and turned to kiss his palm.

"I trust you." She replied, keeping her eyes on his.

"Will you lay down for me?" Sherlock asked, always asked. No demands for her. This was her choice, and Molly loved him all the more for it. She did, laying her hands passively by her sides. She could tell Sherlock was thinking deeply on something. What, she couldn't imagine.

Slowly, he moved to hover above her, and he kisses her lips softly once, twice, three times, before he slowly kissed a path down her jaw and to her neck, eventually pausing on the first bruise Moriarty had left on her. Molly gasped, a shudder running through her, and Sherlock paused at that point, laying several soft kisses on that spot until she let out a quiet hum. He continued as such, from one dark mark to the next, until Molly's hums became moans, and her fearful shuddering came to an end.

Next, the scratches down her sides and on her stomach. He ran his fingers lightly, taking the same path Moriarty had, but instead of pain, he gave a tender caress. Molly sighed, and closed her eyes to the sweet sensations.

Sherlock could feel his own arousal growing, but he ignored his own needs. This was for her. He lifted himself back up to kiss her lips, and Molly let out a soft moan, and raised her hands to bury them into his hair and pull him closer, until his clothed chest was against her bare skin.

Molly let out a small whine, and again, Sherlock pulled away, or tried to. This time, Molly held him in place. "You're. . . All right?" He asked, trying to catch his breath as he met her eyes.

"Yes." Molly said breathlessly. "I just. . ." She looked away, blushing. "I want it off. .

." She said, moving her hands from his hair to the hem of his shirt. He smiled, and allowed her to pulled it off of him, and it joined her shirt on the floor.

The next second, Molly pulled him back down, and recaptured his lips as skin met skin. Sherlock gasped as she arched against him, pushing her breasts into his chest. Again, Sherlock kissed a path downwards, adding small nips and licks, causing her to moan louder, arch higher, until he reached his target.

Sherlock teased her nipple with his tongue, sweeping it across the tender bud as Molly keened and squirmed under him. He brought a hand up to attend to the other, circling his thumb around it as he cupped her breast. Gods, how had he ever thought them inadequate?

"Sher-lock," Molly gasped his name. Her whole body felt like it was on fire, burning wonderfully under his movements and the sensations they caused. She could feel her wetness just waiting for hum, something she never thought she'd enjoy again, and oh god was she.

Sherlock released her perked bud with a small pop, and continued to kiss downwards, until he was at the edge of her pants. He looked up at her, his eyes dark with want, and Molly nodded eagerly, lifting her hips so he could slide them off, her knickers going as well.

He examined her lovely pink lips for just a moment before bending down to place a kiss on the swollen area, eliciting another moan from Molly. He teased her with his tongue, his mouth sucking the tender nub as she arched and gasped his name.

One hand rested on her hip, caressing her skin. The other skimmed up the inside of her thigh until it too reached her center. Still working her with his mouth - gods, the things he could do with that mouth - he slowly entered her with his index finger.

She shuddered, but the sweet sensations were so different, so loving, that soon she bucked up with her hips, urging him to continue.

He added a second finger, and began slowly easing them in and out of her, caressing her core as he continued to suck and lick her engorged sex.

Molly felt herself on the edge, as she writhed beneath his minstrations. He arched his fingers inside her, hitting just the right place, and she was undone. She keened his name as her orgasm rippled through her, sending her to heaven and back.

Sherlock came up as she lay, panting, and she watched as he brought his fingers up to his mouth and tasted her again.

"Sherlock. . ." She whined slightly, feeling empty. She wanted him inside her, wanted him to fill her. She could see the bulge in his pants, ignored until now for her pleasure, but now she wanted to see his everything. "Please. . ."

He removed his bottoms quickly, and shifted to sit between her thighs. He waited as she took her fill of him.

He was perfect, in every away, and hesitantly, Molly wrapped her hand around his length. He groaned, his member twitching eagerly at her touch. She stroked his from base to tip, feeling him, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from thrusting slightly into her palm.

She let him go after a few more strokes, and pulled him down for a passionate kiss as he positioned himself at her entrance, and eased his way inside.

She gasped loudly as he worked his way to the hilt, and paused. They stayed like that, feeling each other. Molly felt full, and loved, and wanted, as she kissed him again and again as he throbbed inside her. Sherlock was amazed, enamored as her sheath welcomed him into a tight, warm haven.

Sweet, and slow, they began to move together. Sherlock withdrew almost completely before pushing back inside her, the friction making him groan huskily, and Molly ran her hand down his back, scraping gently with her nails as she panted and moaned beneath him.

Their lips roamed, hers to his neck, his chest, his to her forehead, her hair, anywhere they could reach, but always, they returned to the others, exchanging light pecks before roaming again.

Paces increased until he was thrusting into her quickly, the friction building. Molly felt her body uncoiling again, just a step from the edge of bliss. Her sighed name, coming from Sherlock's lips before they connected with hers once more send her spiraling over. Her body spasmed as her second orgasm ran through her, her body tightening around Sherlock as he moaned. Another thrust, and he stilled, coming as well, kissing her passionately as they rode the waves of pleasure that rocked through them.

Sherlock fell to her side as he slid out of her, and pulled her against him, her back to his front, and wrapped an arm around her waist loosely. Molly hummed, and snuggled closer, her head resting on his other arm.

"Sherlock. . . thank you." She muttered, smiling softly. "I love you." The words came unbidden, but she was in too blissful a state to care for more than a second before his lips grazed the back of her neck gently.

"I love you too, Molly Hooper." Easily, the response came to him. How could he have ever thought otherwise. This was his everything, his reason to breath.

His free arm traced patterns into the flat plane of her stomach as she slowly drifted to sleep, and Sherlock followed soon after, cradling her close as he allowed sentiment to hold his heart, giving it entirely to her.


	20. I Can't Apologize Enough

Sherlock woke up first, just as the first rays of sunlight streamed through the window. He wasn't inclined to move, feeling Molly pressed against him, his arm holding her close. Usually, he was adverse to such basic needs as touch and companionship from his fellow humans, - yes, he fully admitted to being human - but with her, there was a deep serenity from her closeness.

Eyes still closed, he nuzzled gently into her neck, inhaling her familiar scent and kissing her softly. She didn't so much as twitch in response, so deep was her sleep.

He would have been content to lay there for hours, just holding her, and marveling at the woman he loved. That though, was the problem. Love. Not the feeling itself, but what it meant for both of them.

Molly had been used not once, but twice, against him when he hadn't even begun to breach how important she was to him. Now that he realized his feelings, he couldn't stay with her. There were too many threats left, Sebastian Moran and the rest of Moriarty's web. They would target her if he stayed.

With those conclusions in mind, Sherlock gently removed himself from the bed, and stood. Molly shifted slightly, and seemed to curl into herself, but stayed asleep. Good.

Sherlock retrieved his pants and trousers, and pulled them on one after the other, then moved to crouch by Molly's face. "I hope you can forgive me for this, Molly Hooper," he muttered to her sleeping form, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on her brow before he stood up once more.

He found his shirt and slipped that on as well before exiting the bedroom, shutting it quietly behind him.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly woke up alone a few hours later, instantly aware of the cold area Sherlock had lain in behind her. She swallowed as she sat up, immediately aware of a sick rolling in the pit of her stomach.

She scarcely had time to scramble from the bed and to her bathroom down the hall before she was heaving into the toilet bowl. Her stomach had mostly been empty, but anything that was left in it was expelled, leaving her to gasp as she fought against gagging on air.

Filthy. She felt filthy. She needed a shower, so, without further ado, she pulled aside the curtain and stepped in. She noted numbly that the surface beneath her feet was damp. Someone had used it. Well, not someone. . . She knew who, just as she knew that he had left her to wake up alone.

She pushed aside her thought a, and turned the spray on as hot as it would go, relishing the burn as the first sprays of water hit her. The water was hot enough to turn her skin pink, but that wasn't enough. She pushed up her body wash, cherry vanilla scented, and squeezed a large amount into a wash cloth before scrubbing her skin vigorously, paying close attention to the bite marks and her core. She felt sore, pleasantly so, but that thought alone made her nauseous. She scrubbed harder in retaliation.

Her hair, she shampooed and conditioned twice before it felt clean enough, and then she simply stood in the stream of water, crying, thinking, cursing. She cried for what was lost, her own stupidity, for everything. She thought about last night, and the last few days that had been her hell and her sanctuary at once. She cursed Jim for turning her into this, and Sherlock for leaving her alone, and her body, for putting her through this strain.

But even with all her curses and tears, she didn't, couldn't regret last night. She had felt and seen what Sherlock had shown her, knew it was true, and it was what she had always wanted. She simply cursed the situation surrounding it.

She swallowed hard as she turned the tap off and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel. She wrapped it firmly around herself as she walked back to her bedroom to dress. She chose baggy sweatpants and an over-sized jumper, clothes to give her comfort and looseness.

Trying to find at least a small semblance of peace of mind, Molly exited the bathroom and headed towards her kitchen. Tea. Tea would be lovely. With that in mind, Molly retrieved her kettle and filled it with water before setting in the stove to boil. Next, she went to get a cup and a tea bag, preparing them for the soon to be boiling water.

A few minutes later, she exited the kitchen with a soothing cup of Earl Grey, and a slightly very slightly - better perspective.

It was then, as he walked into her living room, that she saw the delicately folded paper, sitting innocuously on her living room table next to. . . Bloody hell, I told him to put that cup in the sink. The thought came unbidden, but Molly couldn't help but laugh at herself. It truly seemed like a lifetime ago, when she had made the coffee for him, and yet, it's simple presence really put things into perspective. Just how many days had passed, four, five maybe? It was. . . A bit alarming, how fast things could change.

Molly's smiled faded as she sat down, and set her tea aside before picking up the note. It was written in with elegant long hand, leaving no doubts as to who had left it, even if there had been reason to doubt at all.

Molly,

I can't apologize enough for leaving you, but under the circumstances, I could not allow you to be put in anymore danger because of me. Had I waited for you to awaken, I never would have allowed myself to leave your side, or you to leave mine, and I couldn't allow that.

It should be obvious now that my enemies would use my sentiments against me, and you hold the biggest piece of my humanity. I was warned once, that I would have my heart burned from me. I realize now what that meant, and I refuse to lose you again.

Even as I leave you, I want you to know that what I showed you is true. It's selfish of me to ask more of you after everything you've done for me, but I hope you'll wait for me. I will return, after every threat is gone, and I would like very much if you were still my pathologist, and no one else's. 

You will always count.

-SH

Molly wiped her eyes as she finished reading the note, her throat feeling tight. "I love you too, Sherlock." She muttered to the paper, knowing that even though he hadn't said it in so few words, that's what the letter said overall, repeating the words he had said to her so often.

She refolded the note, and put it down before picking up both the cups, and returning to the kitchen to wash and put them both away. She slipped into a small slice of normalcy as her body decided to obey for once, and just calm down. She would wait, and have faith in Sherlock, as she always had.

Until then, it was time to sort things out, and go back to normal. Well, as normal as possible, given the circumstances. . .

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Through out the rest of the day, she called Mary to get Toby back, called Mike to tell him she'd be coming in as soon as the funeral was over - God, the funeral hadn't even happened yet. No time at all had passed, it seemed. . . - and now, there was just one last call to make. John.

She was filled with apprehension as she waited for him to pick up, but as soon as he did, her heart felt lighter.

"John Watson, if this is a reporter, bugger off." Was how the man answered his phone, causing Molly to giggle despite herself.

"Not a reporter, John. . . Though if you want me to bugger off too, I'll understand."

"Oh, Molly, no, it's fine, sorry. I've been. . . trying to get in touch. Sorry for being a right are a few days ago. Stress. . . I know you were just trying to be nice. You're always nice." John kind of skipped between sentences, seeming at a loss for the right words.

"It's fine, I understand. I just. . . I've been out of town, and I lost my mobile, so I didn't have anyway to call anyone. . ."

"Yeah. . . Anyways. . ." He started, "Molly. . . Um. . . I was wondering if you'd be. . . Attending." He didn't continue further, but Molly understood just the same.

"Yes. I know the date. . . You can call me whenever you need to talk, John. . . I guess. . . I'll see you there then?" She asked hesitantly, feeling horrid all over again for the lie she'd be living.

"Yes. Thank you, for coming, I mean. And the support. And, uhm. . . Bye then?" He asked, not sure what else to say.

Though h couldn't see her, Molly nodded. "Yeah, bye. . ." She hung up then, frowning. She had a funeral of a living man to go to, and a secret to hide from everyone for an undisclosed amount of time. How was she ever to pull this off?

The answer came to her as she put the phone away.

Easy. She'd have faith in Sherlock. After all, she was his loyal Pathologist, and would be until the day he returned, and far longer if need be.


	21. Epilogue: A Funeral for A Genius. . .

One week. Seven days. one-hundred sixty-eight hours. No matter how far Molly stretched out the numbers, it never seemed very substantial. To the world, Sherlock had been dead one week. To her, he had left her bed less than three days ago. He was still alive, his heart still beat, and he irrevocably had her heart with him, just as she knew he had left his with her.

It was because of this that Molly dressed in all black, from the hair-tie holding her hair up to her small ballet flats on her feet. She was dressed for a funeral. His funeral. As she looked at herself in the mirror, She felt like perhaps she was the one that belonged in the coffin. Anyone who looked at her would think that it was due to the fact that she lost a friend, and her infatuation for several years, and she was inclined to allow such beliefs to continue. After all, she couldn't very well tell anyone what had happened. Not about going with Sherlock after helping to kill him, or of her kidnapping or what Moriarty did to her, or Sherlock's confessions to her. . . everything had to be bottled up inside.

Her one saving grace, through it all, was the impossibility of her somehow winding up pregnant from the ordeal. She was no fool. Despite the fact that on neither occasions had they used a rubber, she knew, beyond a doubt, she couldn't be pregnant. She had chosen, two years prior, to have a birth control insert put in, since she could never keep up with pills with her hectic life style, and she didn't like the unfamiliarity of rubbers. It was a small blessing, but one she'd accept none-the-less.

Molly was shaken from her thoughts by the knock at her door. She started slightly at the noise, but willed her nerves away. Certain things still set her off - loud banging, or shouting, and any sort of confining pressure on her wrists, but she was trying hard to work through it.

She took on last long, slow breath before going to the door, and opening it to John. He had been a big help, and she liked to think she had helped him too. He looked just as worn down as her, but then, they were going to a funeral. Another phone call yesterday had left them both in tears, sobbing to each other before they had agreed to arrive at the funeral together.

John, for all he was worth, tried to give her a smile, but it faded quickly, having no real strength behind it. Ever the gentleman, he offered her his arm to escort her to the waiting car. That was Mycroft's doing, she was sure, because it certainly wasn't a taxi. A tall man was holding the door for them, adding to the air of posh aristocracy that was definitely the elder Holmes.

She slid across the seat, and John slid in after her, before the man shut the door, and moved into the driver's seat to take them to the funeral. The funeral itself was being held on the Holmes estate for several reasons. Mostly though, it was to ensure that only people who actually cared about Sherlock would be in attendance, and to keep all the horrible vultures that were the media and reporters away.

It disgusted Molly, how much the media had eaten up the story of Sherlock's supposed falsehood as a genius, especially the horrible starting article by Kitty Riley. She wanted to rip that horrible woman's hair out by it's roots. Already, her own answering machine had two messages left by the woman, asking for an interview with 'The Consulting Detective's Favorite Pathologist.' it was simply dreadful. She couldn't possibly imagine what John must be going through with that woman.

At the thought, Molly glanced over at her silent companion. He was looking away from her, out the window, obviously lost in his own thoughts. Again, she couldn't even begin to try to understand where his mind wondered.

Eventually, the car came to a stop in front of what was obviously some sort of family cemetery plot. There were only about thirty tombstones in all, spread out with plenty of room between each. Even without reading them, she knew that each stone held the name of one of Sherlock's ancestors. Gathered in the far corner of the area was a small gathering of people, clearly there for the same reason they were. In all, there was Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, A woman with long, black hair who could only be Mrs. Holmes, and a few others she couldn't begin to name. It really was a small gathering. It saddened her, how few people seemed to actually care about Sherlock.

Molly sighed softly, and waited patiently as the driver got out to open the door for them once more. She exited after John, and they joined the others in silence, though both seemed to be leaning on the other for support.

The funeral itself was subdued, and not just because of the small gathering. Everyone seemed to feel the gloom, even the preacher, who had apparently been sworn to silence about the proceedings. He spoke in a monotone, until the final prayer was said, and one by one, they each placed a single white rose on the closed casket, so cliche, but Sherlock wasn't here to argue against it.

Molly finally began to cry, as she released the flower, and watched it settle with the others. She knew it was a fake funeral, but just the thought. . . one day, this might be real. It might happen before Sherlock came back. . . She shook her head softly, as she moved back to John's side, and buried her head on his shoulder for the comfort of a friend. He gave it to her, his own tears silently falling in a stark contrast to her sobbing.

When all was said and done, everyone seemed to be at least somewhat teary eyed, even Mycroft, though she was sure that was all a show. They had exchanged a small knowing glance, before she was swept into another embrace, this time by Mrs. Holmes herself. It became clear though, that this one was for much more than just comfort, when the older woman began muttering in her ear.

"My sons. . . yes, I know," she began, as Molly gave her a shocked look, "They've told me what you've done for my family. Thank you. You're always welcome here, if you need anything. . . I was told about your. . . incarceration. If you need anything for that, please let Mycroft know. He'll provide a subtle ear." With that, Mrs. Holmes pulled away, once more acting the grieving mother, and Molly's heart did a painful squeeze.

"Thank you." She whispered as Mrs. Holmes muffled false sobs into a handkerchief, and moved to Mycroft's side. The elder Holmes wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving comfort to anyone who didn't know the truth.

Soon after, people slowly began to leave, first the preacher, then Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Molly cast a glance at John, just as he looked over at her. He was frowning slightly, but he sighed, and gave his head a small tilt towards their waiting car, before going back to it. She watched as he got inside, and after a moment of hesitation, she followed him.

Again, the driver held the door open for her, and shut it behind her. He seemed to salute Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes before getting into the driver's seat once more, and they took off.

Once more, Molly and John each got lost in their own little worlds. Both were thinking about Sherlock, in their own distinct ways. John was mourning. Molly was wishing she could know how he was, if he was taking care of himself. Even if it had been only a few days, she wanted to know.

The car stopped first in front of Baker's street, where John was still living, and he briefly looked over at Molly, still trying to be the brave soldier. "I'll see you around. . . right?" He asked hesitantly. He obviously didn't want to lose another friend.

Molly nodded. "Of course John." she did her best to smile, though it came out as more of a grimace.

He got out then, and she watched him enter the flat as the driver took off again, heading for her flat this time.

As he stopped, he got out, and continued his manners by getting the door for her, and offering his hand to help her out of the vehicle.

She took it gratefully, looking up as she stood to catch her first glimpse of the man's face before he pulled her flush against him into a tight embrace.

"Don't say my name." he muttered into her ear, speaking softly. Molly was too stunned to speak even if she wanted to. "I'm sorry. It's unsafe for me to stay. I had to leave you, and I'm going to do so again, but I had to say goodbye properly."

He allowed her to lean away slightly, so she could meet his forever-changing blue eyes, and she nodded. "I love you. Come home, when you can." She muttered, doing her best not to cry again.

He nodded. "I will. Keep it safe for me, until I get back."

"Wha. . ." She didn't have a chance to ask what she was meant to keep safe, before he was pressing his lips to hers in a chaste kiss. It ended quickly, and Sherlock was back in the car, tipping his valet cap to her before driving off.

She stood there, watching the car get smaller, a dazed look on her face. Shaking her head, she went up to her flat with plans to get a cup of red wine, and lay down with a good book. There, taped to her door, a small note.

She took it down, and went into the safety of her flat before reading the familiar scrawl.

My heart. Keep it safe. - SH

"That infuriating man. . ." she muttered, a small smile on her lips. "I can do that, if you keep mine safe as well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . And One last kiss goodbye.


End file.
